Mystery of Joy
by Lynn Saunders
Summary: A "fill-in-the-blank" canon-style journey through Anna and Bates' courtship. I think of this as a "prequel" to A Meeting at Night and Homecoming, but each of the stories can stand alone. This is to be a multiple chapter fic, which began with a T rating and firmly MOVED UP TO A STRONG M AT CHAPTER 16.
1. The Storm

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 1: The Storm

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_Our most intimate friend is not he to whom we show the worst, but the best of our nature. - Nathaniel Hawthorne_

**February 1913**

Brittle pellets ping against the window frames, a rare storm raging beyond the glass. Outside, the trees are slick and cold, shimmering in the darkness, heavy with ice. Fires burn on the hearths, but keeping the bedrooms warm in this weather is difficult. They gather together in the servants' hall to pass the evening in pajamas and quilts, and he rests near her, near the fire.

She smiles at him in the firelight, and he has to pretend he's not taken with it, not taken with her, not completely, utterly besotted.

He's watching her needle as it goes, holding his book just so, feigning interest in the yellowing pages. She's beside him, calm and focused. It will be years before he tells her this, but he's his best self when she is next to him.

"Will you read to me?" She asks the favor without looking up.

He creases the spine and folds the book into his lap, proceeding in his gentle timbre. "The objects that had made a shadow hitherto, embodied the brightness now. The course of the little brook might be traced by its merry gleam afar into the wood's heart of mystery, which had become a mystery of joy.

"Such was the sympathy of Nature- that wild, heathen Nature of the forest, never subjugated by human law, nor illumined by higher truth- with the bliss of these two spirits..." He pauses.

She's watching him now, and a soft smile, barely perceptible, nudges the corners of her eyes.

He holds her gaze as he recites the rest of the passage. "Love, whether newly born, or aroused from a death-like slumber, must always create a sunshine, filling the heart so full of radiance, that it overflows upon the outward world."

No physical touch passes between them, but she burns. Oh, she burns.

* * *

* Bates reads to Anna from The Scarlett Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne. The full text is available free online from many sources.

* This story adheres to angel-princess-anna's Banna timeline, which is posted to Tumblr.

* Don't worry, the next 5 chapters are already written and need only to pass through beta. :)


	2. Christmas Eve

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 2: Christmas Eve

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; and every countenance, bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. _\- _Washington Irving, Old Christmas_

**December ****1913**

They're crowded together in the servants' hall. A place has been cleared for dancing, the long table pushed against the wall. Others from the village have come for the party, and it's running deep into the night, far after the upstairs merriment has wound down. William moves through the doorway with a large tray of cocoa, and Mr. Bates has to step in front of Anna, out of the way of the swerving footman. He catches his cane in his hand so as not to trip anyone, and he's pushed close to her as the revelers spill out into the hallway. Her hands come to rest on his forearms, steadying him as he ducks into the corner with her. He'd said he wasn't coming.

It's been four months since she told him she loved him. Tonight she's had three cupcakes and two glasses of cider, but there's only one thing she wants. She feels warm and happy, and her face flushes at his proximity as he's pushed into her again. He throws a mild insult over his shoulder, but his protests are lost in the thump of the raucous music. She knows he thinks he's too old for this, that he came here tonight only for her.

Why, her mind dares, why are you sticking so close if you don't love me? But, she remains silent.

He has to stoop down to her, bending to speak into her ear so that he can be heard. She knows he's never been this close to her before. Her eyes flit nervously around the room, but no one is paying attention.

His voice rumbles low in her ear. "I've brought you something."

He must not know what that does to her. He couldn't know, she reasons, or he wouldn't be doing it.

She squeezes his forearm and moves out of the corner, to the door. She hopes he understands to follow, for she dares not take his hand. She worries if she allows their bare skin to meet, she won't be able to stop touching him, and she'll not make a fool of herself over him. Not again, she thinks with a wry smile. The click of his cane follows her down the hall as she leads him to the courtyard, foolishly leaving their overcoats behind so that she won't be tempted to linger with him out of doors.

She steps out into the midnight air. It's been snowing, and the night is bright and crisp. He moves outside behind her, pulling the door closed, and they face each other under the arch of the doorpost. Someone has tacked a bit of mistletoe to the wooden beam above them.

He presses a small book into her palm. "Happy Christmas, Anna."

"Thank you," she replies shyly, thumbing the cover. "I've not read it."

She has something for him, too, tucked away up in her room. She had selected the handkerchiefs proudly, the best she could afford, embroidered them with his initials, and wrapped them with care. But, in the end, she felt conflicted about giving them. He isn't hers.

She shivers, and he sheds his suit jacket, placing it around her shoulders. It's large and warm and smells of him. He catches her staring, admiring him in his shirtsleeves, and she swallows and looks away quickly.

He follows her gaze to the mistletoe. "Hung up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty housemaids," he quotes.

She looks at him then, touched, and his eyes drop to his shoes.

"You think I'm pretty?"

He doesn't answer, but his lips betray him nonetheless, curving up into a small smile. She reaches out into the void between them and takes his hand. He looks at her then, deep into her eyes, and she feels his trepidation. He's trembling inside.

The brush of his fingertips against her cheek is gentle and sweet. Not like what she imagines when she lies awake at night, thinking of his touch. He tugs her against his chest, and she hugs him close easily, as if by habit. His strong arms fold around her, holding her tight against him. They rock back and forth slowly, and their embrace lingers as tiny snowflakes begin to fall once more. He doesn't kiss her.

When they break apart, his fingers stroke her cheekbone one last time before he opens the door. The warm yellow light of the hallway engulfs him, and he disappears back into the crowd, leaving her alone with her thoughts. In a few hours, just before dawn, she will creep downstairs and return his coat, hanging it on the hall tree and slipping his gift into the breast pocket. For now, she brings his jacket sleeve to her nose and smiles in the dark, snow falling all around.

* * *

*Bates quotes from Washington Irving's _Sketch Book: Christmas Eve. _The full text is available free online.


	3. Illumination

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 3: Illumination

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I love you not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me. I love you for the part of me that you bring out. - Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

**April 1914**

The candle burns low in its holder as he lies awake, sprawled across his small bed. It's too short for him, and he frowns at the way his feet hang past the end of the mattress. His watch reads just past three. Outside, lightning crawls across the sky.

Spring is here, and Anna is blooming right along with it. He'd seen her, out on her half day, picking daffodils in her best cream blouse. Her skirts were gathered about her as she knelt in the tall grass without her hat, and the sun had already pinked her cheeks. Now, the cheerful flowers rest in a vase across the room.

She was outlined against the deep green of the meadow that day, one brilliant yellow bloom tucked into her hair, and he experienced a moment of profound longing, singular and instant. He wanted to reach out, to touch her. He wanted to lie with her in the tall grass under the endless blue April sky. Her hand would find his, and they'd be done for, coming together amidst the sweet scent of new foliage. Instead, he had crossed the country road to meet her, retrieving her hat from underneath the solitary oak tree and placing it on her head without a word.

These thoughts are dangerous, he knows. It would be so easy to fall in with her, to reject his past and his responsibilities in exchange for her heart. But, he knows that path would lead only to destruction, and he will not hurt her.

An opened envelope lays tossed aside on the nightstand. Inside, a letter from his lawyer explains that Vera is nowhere to be found. There's no hope.

He rolls over, and the hard edge of a book digs into his side. He retrieves it, staring at the cover. _Bells and Pomegranates. _Browning has a way of weaving his words into Bates' mind, and he's not sure that's the safest thing. After all, there's a scandalous poem near the end about forbidden lovers meeting at night. He flings the book onto his chair and leans back into the pillows in the candlelight, threading his fingers together behind his head.

He wills himself to let this go, to abandon the fantasy that they might be able to be together one day. But it's no use. He wants her, and she wants him. He can feel them gravitating toward one another no matter how hard he digs in his heels. He's afraid of the way he loves her.

Thunder rolls outside, rattling the windowpanes. He draws his hand across his face before rising and making himself presentable. He retrieves his discarded book and carefully descends the stairs in the dark.

He is thinking of simply sitting before the fire in the common room, maybe reading alone quietly until it's time to ready himself for the day. But she's already there in the rocking chair, book in hand. The fire has nearly burnt itself out.

He pauses in the doorway, and she nods at him.

"You couldn't sleep either," she says. It's not a question.

He moves to the hearth, tending the fire until it blazes once more. He sits across from her, and they share a companionable silence. He is reminded of the last time a storm forced them from their beds, Anna's eyes bright in the firelight as he read to her.

She's holding the book he gave her for Christmas. He feels a little embarrassed now, thinking of it. He was looking for something else entirely when he came across the small volume, a beautiful embossed copy of _Sonnets from the Portuguese. _Probably too sentimental, he thinks, but he couldn't shake the thought of sharing this with her. He could be reading Robert Browning's poetry alone in his room, while she sighs over Elizabeth's romantic prose, just down the hall. He'd heard the two authors once ran away together to be married.

This is the sort of thing he can do to show her he cares for her, tiny references that require herculean leaps of logic to decipher. That, and speaking in code about his past.

"I've noticed you're reading the other Browning," she says softly.

He gives a hum of agreement.

She smiles warmly at him. "I love them."

For an instant, he thinks she has said "you." He suspects that is what she meant.

"Oh, I love them, too."

He's unprepared for the depth of the desire he sees shining in her eyes. This time, he doesn't look away.

* * *

* Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning did run away together to be wed. They escaped her overbearing father and moved to Italy together. She was famous before he was, and he wrote to her. Their courtship developed from there.

* Mr. Browning's poem _Meeting at Night_ is definitely about Elizabeth and was written during their courtship.

* The quote at the beginning of the chapter appears to be from one of Elizabeth's letters to Robert, but I cannot find a definitive source.


	4. Meadow

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 4: Meadow

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove. - Christopher Marlowe_

**Late August, 1914**

Diamond-patterned light filters bright through the leaves as she sits beneath the tree, his head in her lap. He's fallen asleep, bowler hat tipped low over his brow like a gunslinger, and she won't disturb him. The little field is secluded, and no one will see.

He shed his coat and tie hours ago, rolling his sleeves in the warm sunshine. Now, his long legs stretch out to her right, crossed at the ankle. One large hand rests against his waistcoat buttons, and the other is slung haphazardly to the side, toward her. _The Works of Christopher Marlowe_ has slipped from his fingers and tumbled onto the quilt beside them. His palm is up, and she can see his heart line, the crease dashed and dotted below his knuckles; a testament to his years of hurt, as her grandmother would say.

They've never had a picnic together before today. Rarely have they ventured out just the two of them, mostly for the sake of propriety. He'd seemed nervous when he asked her, bashful even, reaching a tentative hand out to lean against the banister with that one unruly section of hair dipped across his forehead. Why now, she wonders. Why after all this time?

She suspects he has been thinking on their near kiss. He had told her to find someone else in one breath and reached for her hand in the next. His words had rung empty and hollow in the dark alleyway between them, but his touch was a warm flicker in the night, startling in its intensity. She'd bolted as soon as the creak of the door brought her back to reality. Later, alone in her room, she had rolled her eyes at her reflection in the mirror and huffed a long sigh. Nothing was ever easy between them.

She secretly admires him while he rests, imagining reaching out to lay a hand on his chest, running her fingers under the fabric of his waistcoat, feeling the steady rise and fall, his heartbeat against her fingertips. She is intrigued by the place where his collar meets the rise of his neck.

His lips twitch into a smile, and she realizes he is awake. She reaches out to trace the fold of his palm, and his fingers slowly twine with hers. She stares at their linked hands in wonder for a moment, watching as his thumb strokes the back of hers.

His left hand moves to the brim of his hat, tipping it away from his eyes so that he can see her face. Their eyes lock together, and she's drifting into him. He rises onto his elbow and turns toward her, keeping their fingers pressed together against the quilt. He's going to try that kiss again, she thinks, and her lips part in anticipation. He reaches up with his free hand to slide his thumb across her cheekbone before pulling her mouth down to his, brushing her lips tentatively first, then moving deeper. He groans as her mouth opens to him and cradles her face in his hands as their lips part.

She gives him a shy smile, and he heaves a sigh, remembering their troubles, she knows. He presses his forehead to hers for a moment before easing down beside her, and she brushes the hair from his temple lovingly as they rest an arm's length apart, knowing they will wait together.

* * *

* This section ties directly to my fic 'A Meeting at Night.' This is one of the first "prequel" chapters I wrote after publishing 'A Meeting at Night' and 'Homecoming.'

* You should really read _The Passionate Shepherd to His Love_, a pastoral poem by Christopher Marlowe.


	5. Harvest

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 5: Harvest

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_Autumn... the year's last, loveliest smile. - John Howard Bryant_

**Early October, 1914  
**

The hint of color is beginning to touch the orchard leaves as the community comes together for the harvest, enjoying a traditional servants' half day in celebration. Groups of ladies, many in trousers and caps, rest on colorful quilts now that the work is done. Most of the men have already left for the war.

Mr. Bates sits sprawled in the back of the farm wagon, leaning against a bushel of Orange Pippins in the fall sunshine. He's in casual clothing - trousers and a chunky jumper the color of his eyes, his hat tossed aside - and she loves visiting with this version of him. The sweater dips into a shallow vee at the level of his shoulders, and she can see his undershirt peeking beneath. She wants to run her fingers under the buttons there, spreading her chilly hands flat across the softly haired expanse of his chest. Instead, she adjusts her skirts and clears her throat in the cool autumn air.

They're helping to bring in the harvest in exchange for a glass of cider, a Downton tradition. Mr. Bates wasn't much use on the ladders, but he's kept the record for the day, and now the stubby pencil is tucked behind his right ear. He lounges about in the back of the wagon and offers her a slice of apple, balanced between the blade of his pocket knife and his thick fingers. She shivers in anticipation.

For years, they've drifted toward one another incrementally, at a glacial pace. She knows he didn't want to believe that she loved him, inconvenient as it was, but the gap has suddenly closed between them. Weeks ago, they secretly held hands together under the breakfast table while he stared seriously ahead and she tried to remember how to breathe. Someone asked for the bread basket, and she broke their contact to retrieve it. Later, he passed the butter, and his index finger seemed to drag across her thumb of its own volition.

They learned quickly to keep their distance in the main house, to temper their contact, because if she lets him really touch her, even casually, her skin burns with it. The results would be disastrous, embarrassing. They are infrequently alone, but she hopes in those quiet hours, they will have the opportunity to allow the barriers between them to slowly crumble in fervent whispers, gentle rustles of fabric.

She's in a simple hand-me-down dress that she tailored herself, but he gazes at her as if she hung the moon. He takes another slice for himself and passes the rest of the apple to her. She finishes it, smiling at him. He looks for a moment as if he might kiss her right there in front of everyone, but he remembers himself and looks away.

"It's no use, Mr. Bates," she says quietly. "They all know just the same."

He sighs and dips his head. "I know..."

She is forever intrigued with his desire-roughened voice, how it can be gentle and gruff at once, how it might feel against her neck, the things it might whisper to her in their moments alone.

He won't look at her. "That doesn't mean we shouldn't try to hide it."

She nods and pats his hand gently, soothing him. "But you don't have to hide it from me."

He slowly turns back to her then, looking into her eyes, letting her see.

* * *

* Special thanks, as always, to terriejane and gelana78 for beta. I realized just now with horror that I did not thank them in the previous chapters, but they've been here for the whole ride.

* The quote at the beginning is from John Howard Bryant's poem _Indian Summer_. The quote is often erroneously attributed to William Cullen Bryant, who also wrote a poem about Indian Summer.


	6. Passion Play

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 6: Passion Play

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_She lifted her veil, and put aside the black cloak which always covered her dress. Her angel's face, as the great eye of Heaven shined bright, and made a sunshine in a shady place. - Edmund Spenser_

**December 1914  
**

Bates leans against his cane in the wings of the musty auditorium, shaking his head with a smile. Beside him, Anna is dressed as an angel, and the utter rightness of that idea is not lost on him. The stage curtain rustles as three wisemen duck through, and he catches a glimpse of Lord Grantham grinning in the front row, the school's Head Mistress in the place of honor at his side. At the last moment, he notices that one of the wisemen has a crooked beard.

"Daisy," he whispers sharply, gesturing to the girl's chin.

She stops, and Anna reaches up to adjust the false beard, soothing Daisy's nerves in her gentle way. "There," she says, "now you look every bit the noble king."

Daisy sighs uneasily and hurries through the curtain to join the others, leaving Anna alone with him backstage.

"I never would've pictured Mrs. Patmore in oriental robes and a faux mustache," he says, and their eyes meet warmly in the low light.

"Well, there weren't enough gentlemen to fill the parts." She smiles up at him. "I'll take no lip from you, especially since I kept you out of it as a favor. I'd always thought you'd make a regal king, but I really could've used you as Joseph." On stage, Mr. Moseley gestures wildly as he delivers his lines about the virgin birth.

"Joseph with a cane?" he scoffs.

"Maybe the jackass, then," she teases, and he looks down at her, pleasantly surprised. As always, their gentle banter fascinates him. If they get on this well in casual company, what else might flow easily between them in private?

They watch from the wings as Mr. Carson speaks for the rest of the wisemen, welcoming the Savior as Daisy and Mrs. Patmore fidget beside him in the bright stage lights. The butler preferred to give all the lines, as the ladies' voices "couldn't carry" like his.

"He does have a grand stage presence," Anna marvels.

"And to think he scoffed initially." He rests his cane against the wall carefully and leans back to take in the sight of her once more. "I think he was a little horrified in the beginning, actually." He reaches out to adjust her pipe cleaner halo. Her golden hair falls about her face, and he lets his warm fingers stray across her collarbone, tucking the soft curls behind her shoulder. This is the first time he's seen her this way, her beautiful hair flowing free. Her eyes don't leave his, and the intimacy of the moment draws out between them.

"Well," she whispers when she's able to find the words. "That's enough of that, Mr. Bates, or I'm afraid I'll miss my final cue." She steps back, smoothing her crisp white dress. "How do I look?"

His lips turn up into a small smile. She has brushed shimmering dust across her brow and cheekbones, and her eyes sparkle for him. "Heavenly." He almost sighs the word.

She arches an eyebrow, boldly reaching out to trace his waistcoat buttons with her fingertips. He knows she thinks it's safe to tease him here, that he won't retaliate, hidden as they are from prying eyes by only the heavy velvet of the wine-colored stage curtain. But she's wrong. His large hands fly to her waist, pulling her to him as his lips move against hers and the lyrics of _Silent Night _begin to lift from the voices on stage.

When their lips part, he hugs her close. _"_Sleep in heavenly peace," he whispers against her ear, and the rest of the words stay caught in his throat as she tucks her head against his chest and applause thunders beyond the curtain.

* * *

The Abbey's conservatory is rarely used by anyone but the estate gardeners, and it's clean and warm. It's private.

When he meets her there, she's still in her halo and white gown, and she is ethereal, otherworldly against the dark outcropping of foliage. The air is moist, and the windows are smudged with condensation from the chill outside.

She had extracted herself carefully from his embrace earlier, before the others caught them red-handed, kissing like bandits in the wings during a children's play. Not that it would matter- she was flushed and out-of-breath, her lips slightly swollen from his kisses, and she was late joining the others on stage for the finale. It was plain to anyone what they had been up to.

They had survived the cast receiving line and the small party afterward without touching each other, and when he put on his coat backstage, readying to leave, she followed him outside quickly to join the others. Alone in the hallway, she had touched his shoulder gently and whispered to him before hurrying on ahead.

He'd thought it might be awkward, their first meeting here. Instead, he's in front of her in two steps with his hands on her hips as she buries her face in his neck. He lets his cane fall as he holds her, and their lips meet in earnest. The thrill of being able to touch her unrestrained makes him dizzy, and he backs against the near wall, leaning against it for support as she rises up to meet him. His lips move to her neck, and she gasps against him, pushing back slightly, wide-eyed.

"Is that alright?" he asks, concerned.

She tugs at him, nodding. He smiles down at her and does it again, desire thrilling up his spine as she makes little wordless sounds against his shoulder. He lets his teeth drag across the skin behind her ear, and she clutches at him.

He pulls back to look into her eyes again, and she takes his hand, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against the inside of his wrist. His hands move to frame her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones before he reaches back to remove her halo and tosses it aside. She closes her eyes and leans into his touch as he tangles his fingers in her hair and kisses her thoroughly in the sweet air of the hothouse, the winter sky barely visible through the fog on the glass above.

* * *

* A response to terriejane's Fic Prompt #13.

* Beta by terriejane and gelana78

* The quote at the beginning is from _Una and the Lion_, part of _The Faerie Queen_.


	7. Closing

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 7: Closing

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? - Percy Bysshe Shelley_

**March 1915  
**

The trees are beginning to bud again, the seasons forging endlessly ahead, almost without her. She's still stuck on the feel of him, the expanse of his shoulders under her fingertips, his kisses sparking against her neck for the first time. When they had come up for air, he'd rested his forehead against hers gently. She had closed her eyes, telling him they should go, because she couldn't muster the strength to leave as long as he was looking at her that way. He had kissed her so softly before releasing her.

They have visited the conservatory exactly four times, and she finds she can hardly wait to feel him pressed against her. It seems each time they meet, he discovers a new way to make her come out of herself, even through the barriers of their clothing.

On the walk back to the Abbey that winter night, she had caught a clear glimpse of him in the moonlight and snorted with laughter, snagging the handkerchief from his breast pocket. He was covered in her angel dust.

"It's all over you, too," he'd said, pulling her close again.

"Yes, well it was on me to begin with, wasn't it? I suspect that won't raise quite so many eyebrows._"_

They had shared a hearty laugh together then, breath puffing in the frosty air, before she looped her arm through his. "Take me home, Mr. Bates," she had whispered. God, she wished he could, really.

She shakes her head and tries to focus. The breakfast conversation has been mundane, but the little fried cakes are delicious. When his leg presses against hers under the table, she's not sure if it's purposeful, but she doesn't move away.

Mr. Carson mumbles something about the conservatory, and they both glance toward the head of the table.

"...earmarked for renovation anyway, but it seems as if something rather large has fallen against one of the windows and broken the seal."

Mr. Bates nearly chokes on his coffee beside her, and Mrs. Hughes gives both of them a stern look.

The housekeeper sighs. "We'll have to find someplace for all the herbs until it's warmer out. It'll be uninhabitable for weeks."

They're careful not to even look at each other for the rest of the day. She can still hear the crack and echo of him landing against the windowsill. It was a week ago, and she had startled him, tugging the back of his shirt from his trousers and running her hands underneath. She knows, after this, he won't want to chance meeting in the little greenhouse again.

In the evening, Mrs. Hughes asks if she might have a word in private. "You seem very close to Mr. Bates," she observes over her teacup.

The sitting room door is closed, and Anna knows she has been called in to speak of this very thing. That first night, leaving the conservatory, Mr. Bates had squeezed her hand as their proximity to the Abbey forced them apart. They had run into Mrs. Hughes in the hall and smiled warmly together, discussing the nativity play's success. As he excused himself for the night and turned to go, Anna's eyes had gone wide, for they had missed a spot. There was a telltale streak of shimmering angel dust where his closely shorn hair met his collar. She averted her eyes, hoping not to give them away, but the head housekeeper had worn a definitive smirk as she bid Anna goodnight.

"I'm not sure what you mean," she says softly, looking away.

"Aren't you?" The older woman smiles and sips her tea. "Anna, you're not a child, and you don't need looking after like the girls, but... please mind that you are careful."

Anna's not sure if her friend is trying to warn off a broken heart or an unexpected child. Both, she supposes. "You needn't worry." She pauses, staring into her teacup, thinking of how they can't be together. Not really.

Later, as she wanders away to her solitary room, unexpected tears sting her eyes. Restraint is a fundamental part of every aspect of her life, it seems, and she has begun to strain under the burden of ignoring what she wants most. She nearly collides with him on the stairs, lost as she is in her thoughts, and he places a gentle hand on her shoulder, concerned.

"Anna?"

She can't hide her tears now, and she lets them fall. All he can do is watch. He dares not cross the space between them here.

* * *

The evening air is pleasant, and she doesn't hesitate to linger outside in the alleyway, waiting to see if he'll make an appearance. The conservatory has been closed for 3 weeks, and not so much as a whisper of impropriety has passed between them since the evening he found her crying in the stairwell. She misses him. When he steps outside, he's still in his apron and sleeves. They sit together on an overturned crate, and he brings a square of chocolate out of his pocket, offering her half.

"I don't have much time," he says, disappointed.

She shakes her head and tries not to look defeated. "I know."

"It might be for the best," he admits. "It was getting harder to leave you after..." He looks at his shoes and sighs.

"I don't know if I can stop," she says sadly. "I don't want to." She realizes she has allowed herself to get in too deep, to fall too hard, but she's not sorry. She wants him. She knows he wants her too.

Her tears surprise her, and she doesn't really know that she's shedding them until he brings his fingers to her cheek to brush them away. "God, Anna... please don't cry again. I can't bear it."

But she can't stop, and she's embarrassing herself, sobbing over him this way even though she's known from the beginning that she can't have him. What was she thinking? And how can she feel this way if it's just not meant to be? He rubs her back gently, and she's continuously amazed that such powerful hands can touch her soothingly, when she knows the other responses they so easily elicit from her in the dark.

"What can I do?"

"Write to her," she sniffs, saying the words so softly that he doesn't understand.

"What?" He passes her a handkerchief.

She rubs her thumb across the initials she embroidered by hand. "Find her." He knows who.

"Anna, I've tried..."

"Try again. Please?"

He nods, unable to deny her, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I will."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

* * *

* The Percy Bysshe Shelley quote at the beginning is from _Ode to the West Wind_. The full text is available free online.

* The next chapter is much happier, so please hang with me. Fellowes did not give us sunshine and rainbows to work with, here.

* For awesomegreentie who (sort of) prompted an angel dust all over Bates scene.

* Beta by gelana78 and terriejane, as always, and downtonluvr joined in on this one as well.


	8. Starlight

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 8: Starlight

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_As I thought of these things, I drew aside the curtains and looked out into the darkness, and it seemed to my troubled fancy that all those little points of light filling the sky were the furnaces of innumerable divine alchemists, who labour continually, turning lead into gold, weariness into ecstasy, bodies into souls, the darkness into God; and at their perfect labour my mortality grew heavy, and I cried out, as so many dreamers and men of letters in our age have cried, for the birth of that elaborate spiritual beauty which could alone uplift souls weighted with so many dreams. - W.B. Yeats_

**June 1915**

"I've been thinking," he says. They're in the courtyard again, and he's brought her a handful of strawberries. She bites into the largest one, and the juice runs down her chin. He takes it away from her and finishes it before settling the rest of the berries between them on his handkerchief. The plump fruit is soft and warm, and the taste is sweet on his tongue.

They survived the spring, with its ups and downs, navigating the treacherous path carefully so that rifts wouldn't form between them. It all seems so far away now. They're more relaxed, settled with one another. Now there's no ambiguity. He had come straight out with it, told her he loved her. It was months ago, and he'd said the actual words, not just the gist of the thing. God help him, he'd been forced to give her hope, for he couldn't lose her now. He needs her to know he's entertained thoughts of no one else since that spring morning when he hopped the milk train to Downton Station. There was no one else before that either. Not really.

Versions of the letter he wrote to Vera stayed in Anna's apron pocket for a week before they got the wording right. He wanted her to read it too, to be a part of the search, to know first-hand what was coming and that it couldn't be undone. The letter didn't mention Anna, but her fingerprints ghosted the pages, the invisible signature of their togetherness.

She nudges his foot with hers, indicating she wants him to continue the thought.

He looks at her shyly. "I think I need to court you properly."

She raises an eyebrow, taking another strawberry. "What did you have in mind?"

"I think we need to picnic under trees together and go to the pictures. I need to win you a prize at the fair. That sort of thing." He is quite the romantic in his old age.

"Are you planning to woo me, Mr. Bates?"

He dips his head, smiling.

"It sounds lovely," she says.

He winks at her, finishing the last sweet berry. They sit in companionable silence for a moment, listening to the sounds of summer coming on, and he thinks of that night back in the spring, of watching her beautiful ocean eyes well over because they couldn't be together.

He'd realized then that she might not know how he feels. If he were free, she'd be his, and they'd marry, and he would live every day for her. He had told her this, laid it all out. If he was free, they wouldn't wait. But he isn't free - not in the eyes of the law or in the eyes of society - and to cross those borders would be a risk too great. He won't let her take it.

She had quieted for a long while, considering his words. Her expression remained carefully neutral, but he could tell she wasn't angry. She had taken a deep breath and let it out, turning her face toward the sky, the first stars beginning to show through the twilight. "Do you love me, Mr. Bates?"

He had chuckled. "Of course I do," he'd said, but when she wouldn't look at him, he'd felt horrified that he'd never told her before. She could guess, but she needed to know for sure.

He had reached out to her then, letting his fingers brush her cheekbone, turning her eyes to his. "Anna, I do love you. Very much. I've never wanted anything as badly as I want you." His large hand caressed her face, and she had covered it with her own, pressing her cheek into his palm and closing her eyes. And she had smiled. He hadn't seen her smile in days, not like this. It reached her eyes.

Afterward, they had beamed at each other, and she had leaned her head on his shoulder. "Thank you," she'd said.

Tonight, she she squeezes his hand meaningfully, then reaches up to adjust his tie, letting her fingers linger against his chest for a moment before they part for the night.

* * *

It's well past evening, and she waits quietly near the well-worn path as instructed, shifting nervously on her feet, wondering how he aims to sneak the both of them back into the main house later. When he appears, he's carrying a quilt, and she grins at him. "I thought we were slowing down that side of things for a little while, Mr. Bates."

He seems relieved that she's back to teasing him again. He smirks and nods, reaching out to take her hand. "We'll need it."

They walk arm-in-arm, down past the cottages, and she smiles, pleased with the white roses climbing the brick facade. She feels an odd sense of comfort in the knowledge that they bloom beneath the bedroom windows. He leads her out into a small field, away from the lights of the main house, and the summer sky is clear and open, stars extending to every horizon. He spreads the blanket, and they lie down together in the dewy grass. He settles her carefully into the crook of his arm, and they bathe in the starlight.

"I haven't done anything like this since I was a boy."

She sighs beside him, relaxing fully into his embrace. "I've never done anything like this. Thank you, it's wonderful."

She's never focused on the night sky this way before. A brilliant star streaks across the heavens, and she stares in wonder.

"Anna?"

She hums.

He presses his lips against her ear. "I love you."

Those three words thrill her so much that she has to close her eyes. God, she loves to hear him say that. In the past few weeks, she's found it makes all the difference. It's easier to just exist in the moment with him now. How curious that she can be so consumed with want of him, so devastated at the prospect of not being able to experience him fully, only to find comfort in mere whispers of love. She thinks that might be enough for now, and she holds such hope for the future.

At her smile, he adds, "I am so sorry I hadn't spoken the words earlier. You didn't deserve that."

She takes a shuddering breath. "I knew, really. I did. But, it's so nice to hear you say it."

"I should've told you ages ago, honestly." He squeezes her shoulder and turns his eyes back to the midnight sky.

She can tell he wants to say something else, so she nudges him with her shoulder. "What's the matter?"

He sighs, conflicted. "I don't think there should be anything held back between us," he says. "I need to know what you're feeling, and clearly I need to be more forthcoming as well. It's too easy to have misunderstandings when we're both so..." he gestures with his right hand until he finds the word. "Frustrated."

"Honesty is the best policy, you mean?"

He nods, and she reaches out to pull a blade of grass, twirling it in her fingers, considering his words. It would be so easy to open herself to him physically, but it's been exceedingly difficult to share the rest. She knows he's right. Still, she hesitates.

"There was someone else, before Vera," he offers, and she looks at him curiously. "Ada. But when I think about my past, I know I've never felt anything like what I feel when I'm with you." He takes her hand.

"Were you married?" she asks gently.

"No." He blinks in the starlight. "She was ill... she died."

His frank words tug at her heartstrings, and suddenly she blurts out, "I write to your mother." She immediately fears she's said too much and looks away. He remains silent, and there's nothing she can do but forge ahead. "After I visited her that once, she wrote to thank me, and I wrote back." She shrugs. "We never stopped. We've connected, and I love her, really." She feels the need to continue, but she's out of words.

He rises onto his elbow beside her and touches her shoulder.

She crinkles her nose. "Does it seem strange?" Bravely, she meets his eyes.

He laughs then, loud and deep, as if he finds her trepidation in telling him utterly hilarious.

"So you don't mind?" she asks hopefully.

"Of course I don't mind." The way he looks at her is something she couldn't ignore, even if she tried. "And it's hardly a revelation," he admits.

She swats his chest with the back of her hand playfully, and he flops down beside her, pretending to be wounded. "Why didn't you tell me you knew we keep in touch?"

He smiles and shakes his head. "It was your secret, and I didn't want to force it from you." He pulls her close, and she giggles in his arms. "Now Miss Smith, what other clandestine affairs are you hiding from me?"

She turns her face into his neck and breathes in, and she feels safe and warm. She feels loved. Her hand finds his, and they lie back under the thick tapestry of stars together as dew slicks the quilt beneath them and the summer night hums all around. They are at peace.

* * *

* The Yeats quote is from _Rosa Alchemica_. The full text is available free online.

* Thanks to gelana78, terriejane, and downtonluvr for beta! You ladies are simply wonderful.


	9. Symphony

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 9: Symphony

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent. - Victor Hugo_

**November 1915**

Something about the fall air has captivated Anna, the low angle of light through the trees, the smells of leaves and apples and cinnamon. Since their stargazing adventure at the beginning of the summer, they've gone to the pictures, and he watches her instead. He holds her hand and gives her secret smiles. Wounded soldiers have started filtering into Downtown's little hospital, and they visit the injured men together, reading to them. The season is bringing her alive with anticipation, and she knows he feels it too. This year, the orchard harvest requires every able body, and they work together in the back of the wagon, counting bushels. He brings her a pear as they rest together at the end of the day, and her fingers indent the ripe flesh. It is soft and sweet, and they pass it back and forth as the sun dips low on the horizon. She idly wonders how long they will hold out, guessing the days, weeks and months she'll have to wait for him. It might not be proper, but she includes Vera in her evening prayers, hoping that the wife of the man she loves is well and safe, that Vera receives their delicately worded plea and is willing to release him.

His mother has written every season since they first met, and Anna returns the letters warmly. This time, Mrs. Bates says she's going to a war relief concert in London, and wouldn't Anna be a dear and come along with her? She's conflicted, wondering what he'll say, but when she tells him, he seems to know all about it.

She gives him a small smile. "I think I'll go with her," she says.

He nods. "And I'm to escort you."

She gives him a quizzical look, and he qualifies, "Mother told me that you're a nice girl, and I'm not getting any younger." He gives her an incredulous smile. "In other words, what am I waiting for? She's already sent for the tickets."

They both know what he's been waiting for, but neither mentions his wife or the letter.

Anna returns his smile and trails her fingers along his waistcoat pocket when she's sure no one will see. "Do you like the symphony, Mr. Bates?"

He takes a step closer. "I believe it might just be my new favorite thing."

* * *

Mrs. Hughes raises an eyebrow, but she accepts Anna's request for time off. The housekeeper also doesn't question Anna's admission, when asked directly about the matter, that she's to accompany Mr. Bates to London. "I'll quiet any talk while you're away, as you do technically have a chaperone," she says with a shake of her head.

Lady Mary does more than raise an eyebrow. "Well, it certainly seems serious between you two," she says with a smirk as Anna braids her hair late in the evening.

Anna skirts the issue with practiced ease, but her soft smile betrays her. "I've never been to the symphony."

Mary grins at her in the mirror. "Yes, well we'll have to find you something to wear."

"Lady Sybil handed down something a few years ago, and I thought that would do," she replies, tying Mary's ribbon and stepping back to hang up the dinner clothes. "I don't have much occasion for an evening dress."

"Not the wine-colored one, with the embroidery at the waist?"

Anna pauses mid-step. "Is it unsuitable for the concert hall, M'Lady?"

"No, it would do." Mary stands and moves to the wardrobe. "But I think this would be stunning on you." She pulls out a soft blue gown that Anna has always secretly admired.

"No, M'Lady, I couldn't possibly-"

"Nonsense, I insist," Mary interrupts, smiling. She moves to stand behind Anna, holding the dress up to gauge the fit. "Look." She gestures to the mirror.

Anna can't deny it would be the perfect thing. She imagines Mr. Bates seeing her this way, the rich cerulean color bringing out her eyes, her collarbones and arms bared to him. Anna meets Mary's expectant gaze in the mirror, but she can't find words.

"You'll have to alter the length, no doubt, but it's yours."

"M'Lady..."

Mary gives her a stern look. "I've not worn this in two seasons. It belongs to you."

Anna doesn't hide her smile. "M'Lady, thank you."

* * *

The soaring music of Beethoven's 9th Symphony holds her rapt and sparks something deep within her, the melody hanging thick in the air around them. She listens to the opening of the final movement with tears shining in her eyes. The soaring, triumphant notes make her feel overwhelmed and insignificant. His mother reaches over to pat her hand gently, and Anna gives a smile of thanks.

He is seated to her right, on the aisle, his cane hooked over the arm of his chair. The look in his eyes as she descended his mother's stairs in her evening gown is forever burned into her memory. He had traced the arch of her neck with the backs of his fingers when they were alone, but they've been on their best behavior at the concert. In the beginning, his eyes were fixed upon her, gauging her reaction. Slowly, the music had pulled at him until he turned his full attention to the stage. Now, their eyes meet for a moment as she glances up at him. Her breath quickens with the thrill of it, the bass drum sounding rhythmically, and she becomes aware that he is subtly watching the rise and fall of her decolletage in his peripheral vision. He folds his arms across his chest, and her breath catches as the fingers of his right hand drag hidden across the back of her bare arm. He maintains this small bridge between them until the final cymbal crashes and deafening applause erupts all around.

They walk the few blocks home in awed silence, Mrs. Bates leaning heavily on her son's arm. Once inside her warm house, his mother plies them with sweet white wine and cake before she takes her leave for the night, and Anna feels tipsy and warm, comfortable and loved. He stretches, and his arm finds its way around her, across the back of the sofa. He's already removed his coat and tie, and they're at ease, relaxed together. She leans into him carefully and closes her eyes.

When Mrs. Bates pauses in the doorway on her way back through to the kitchen, she finds her son fast asleep, sprawled out on the sofa with Anna tucked neatly against his side. She moves to wake him, to send them on to their separate beds, but she hesitates when she catches a glimpse of his face in the lamplight. He's calm, serene even. She can't remember the last time she's seen him so at peace. The creases around his eyes are evident even when his face is relaxed in sleep, and she is reminded that he's no longer a boy, but a man, quiet and strong, and that throughout his life, happiness has been fleeting. She could pretend to be staunch in her convictions, forcing them to separate, but when she sees how happy they are, she simply isn't able. After all, didn't she herself spend several blissful nights in her husband's arms, long before they wed? He can make up his own mind about what's right, she thinks, shaking her head at how liberal she's becoming in her old age. She quietly extinguishes the lamp and tiptoes out, leaving them dreaming in the firelight together with a smile.

When he wakes in the middle of the night, Anna is curled against him, her head tucked into the crook of his arm. He thinks she's still asleep, and he smiles in the dark, pulling the quilt from the back of the couch and wrapping them in it together.

"Thank you," she mumbles, sleep drunk voice flooding through him as she settles herself against his side.

His fingers trail across her bare shoulders as he lies awake, trying to imprint the feel of her, to seal the touches and textures and tastes inside his mind forever.

* * *

She wakes gently as morning light streams through the windows, and she slowly realizes that she's still here with him on the sofa, that she's slept in her corset with her hair up, that they spent the night together, and that they've had quite the lie in. Her face flushes with her smile, and she presses her nose into his chest and breathes in. There's no telling how long it will be before she experiences something this wonderful again.

He's snoring softly, one long arm slung over his brow, the other wrapped loosely around her. She lies listening, rising and falling with each of his breaths. The house is warm and silent. She gently moves up in his embrace and brushes her lips across his, kissing him awake. He smiles against her, sleepy eyes opening slowly, and he turns to face her, deepening their kisses, his morning arousal apparent as he presses her solidly into the back of the sofa. It's terribly intimate, and they grin at each other shyly.

They can't - not now, and certainly not_ here_. He holds his eyes shut for a moment, then looks at her, brushing her hair from her face. She gives a small nod, acknowledging his unspoken desire, and kisses the back of his hand. The handful of evenings they shared in the conservatory come flooding back to him, and he can't wait to have her all to himself for a stolen hour once more.

"When?" he whispers. They both already know the place.

Their free time together is often unplanned out of necessity. Schedules can change at a moment's notice. He simply wants her to know that he's ready to move forward and is unable to find any other words. She seems to understand, though. She presses her forehead against his.

Upstairs, his mother starts bumping around, opening doors and drawers loudly. His brow furrows, and they laugh together quietly.

"I think she wants to make sure we're fully awake and separated before coming down."

His back and knee are sore from sleeping on the sofa, but he is beyond caring as he sends her up to her room with a rather satisfied smile.

Later, as Mrs. Bates bustles about in the kitchen, she mentions with a sly grin how rested they both look. He clears his throat uncomfortably, and Anna stifles a giggle into her teacup. The sweet old woman even winks at Anna as she heaps ham and potatoes onto their plates.

* * *

When the letter reaches Vera, it has bounced around the mailrooms of two post offices and is finally delivered by an acquaintance. She knows the sender, recognizing his bold hand instantly. In the evening, she takes the unopened envelope from her coat pocket as she stands before the fire, carefully lighting the corner and watching it burn in her fingers until she feels the heat from the flame. She drops it into the fireplace then, reducing his careful words to ashes.

* * *

* The London Symphony Orchestra continued to perform during the early years of World War I. The LSO eventually canceled all concerts until the end of the war, however this was not decided until September 26, 1917.

* Though it might seem odd for a London symphony to play Beethoven in the midst of World War I, I cannot find any evidence that such a performance would be frowned upon. Ironically, during World War II, Beethoven's 5th Symphony became identified as a symbol of the Allied Forces. And though anti-German sentiment did lead to the banning of Beethoven in Pittsburgh late in WWI, I can find no reference to such feelings in England during that time.

* A performance of Beethoven's entire 9th Symphony by the London Symphony Orchestra is available on youtube.

* Thanks to terriejane, downtonluvr, and gelana78 for beta. :)

* All of my DA-era fic is related. Find the timeline at lynnsaundersfanfic dot tumblr dot com backslash banna.


	10. Careful

**Mystery of Joy  
**

Chapter 10: Careful

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_And then, strange to say, the first symptom of true love in a young man is timidity; in a young girl it is boldness. This is surprising, and yet nothing is more simple. - Victor Hugo_

**December 1915**

The air inside the conservatory is warm and fragrant, earthy despite the frost outside, and she breathes in the invigorating scent. He's not yet arrived, and she trails her fingers over the tendrils of ivy hanging across the southern wall. It's been a year to the day since she first met him here, and she's still taken with the idea.

They've been biding their time since returning from London. Tonight, the downstairs of the main house runs over with food and drink, and they'll not be missed. Hopefully, their caution will buy them the benefit of the doubt if suspicions arise, and they'll need to try not to break anything this time.

She smiles, thinking of the milestones that they've achieved on Christmas Eve through the years. It's tempting to imagine testing him, to push his limits. It's not because she doesn't cherish him. It's that she's never felt this way before, and she can't shake him, can't get his touch out of her mind. She's never felt so desirous of anyone, of anything. She wants to feel his skin slide against hers, to have him all to herself, to experience him completely even though she is largely inexperienced in such matters. If she were more worldly, the intensity of her desire would frighten her.

She keeps calmly to herself, though. Most days. She stands rigid and proper amongst the other servants while she secretly imagines how it might feel if his thick fingers slid up the insides of her thighs, working up her skirts in the sweet hothouse air. Her mind burns with it, lost in the idea of his secret touches. Luckily - or unluckily, depending on how she chooses to view their situation - he's ever the gentleman.

When he appears, she ducks into the shadows to watch him for a moment, and she feels predatory and wanton. Feral. He removes his hat and leans his cane against a windowsill. Careful, she thinks.

His voice, when it comes, is roughened with desire, dangerous. "Anna?"

She approaches confidently, stalking him like a lioness, a fatal flash of movement in his peripheral vision. She closes the space between them, and he wraps her in his arms.

Meeting here tonight might be too risky. She knows that's what he wants to say, but his hands betray him. He drops his hat so that he might run his hands along the curve of her back. She pushes at his overcoat, and he lets it fall.

They share long, earth-moving kisses. The workbench is two uneven steps away, and he backs her against the tabletop. She works him out of his suit jacket as he unbuttons the collar of her dress and marks her neck with his lips and teeth, stooping down to meet her. She knows she won't stop him. He can have her, body and soul, whatever he desires. But she also knows him well enough to understand that he won't let them risk anything with permanent consequences.

He doesn't protest when her fingers move to his waistcoat buttons, and she frees them one by one, helping him shrug out of it. He makes a frustrated noise when he realizes he can't get his mouth any lower than her collarbones with her dress still properly on. That's the limit tonight, she realizes. That's the barrier he won't let them cross.

He presses his forehead against hers for a moment before kissing her lips again, and her fingers move to his shirt buttons. He leans back slightly, and she pauses, unsure. His eyes meet hers, and he slowly unknots his tie and parts his collar for her. He wants to watch, she realizes, and she licks her lips nervously as her trembling fingers release the buttons in succession. She stops where his shirt disappears into his trousers, chancing a look into his eyes, and she reaches up to pull his tie from beneath his collar. His eyes burn through her, and he takes her small hand in both of his, moving her fingers under the split edges of his dress shirt and pressing her palm against his chest. She can feel his heartbeat through the heat of his undershirt, and she's reminded of that summer day in the meadow when she imagined doing this very thing.

She blinks at him for a moment, then reaches up with both hands to slip her fingers under the fabric at his neck, dipping into the valleys above his collarbones. He closes his eyes, leaning into her touch with a shuddering sigh. His braces hold his shirt firmly in place while she explores him with gentle hands, and she moves to trace their path across his shoulders and chest. She slips her fingers beneath, sliding the thick bands over his shoulders, and they fall loosely at his sides.

His warm hands frame her waist, and he opens his eyes to watch her once more. She pulls his shirt tails from his trousers and slides her fingers just underneath before pausing to release the last few buttons of his dress shirt. She eases him out of it in short order, and then she's free to run her hands beneath his undershirt, following the soft hair she encounters there, allowing her fingers to drift from his navel to his chest and back again. As he helps her pull his undershirt up over his head, she becomes acutely aware of the disparity in their heights. She can't believe she's this close to him, and he smells so good.

When she slips her arms around him and hugs him close, he lifts her roughly onto the tabletop, stepping between her legs, and her skirts bunch maddeningly in the way. The jolt of the table beneath her sends several terracotta flowerpots crashing to the floor. She reaches down between them, tugging at the fabric of her dress until it lays smoothly across her thighs, and he runs his fingers up her stockinged calves, just past her knees, to trace the tops of her garters. He'll go no further.

She tugs him closer and wraps her legs around him as his fingers move to graze the back of her neck just so, and something about the combination of his solid weight pressing against her, the muscles of his bare shoulders moving under her hands, and his lips trailing behind her ear makes her fall apart. She gives a small cry and shudders against him, burying her burning face against his chest. It was a fleeting spark, like a firecracker, but it happened all the same.

He leans back, smiling with disbelief before moving to kiss her again, and her fingers stray to his trousers. She wants to feel the incessant press of him between her legs, to feel him pulsing in her hands, but he pulls up short, panting against her lips.

"Anna," he growls low, a warning.

Her hands smooth up his chest, and she links her fingers behind his neck as she looks away. He tips her chin to him, claiming her mouth once more. Years from now, she will think of these moments of restraint and wonder if they would've taken the leap together then, had they only known how difficult it is to get her pregnant, the careful counting of days and the sheer frequency involved. She won't be sure of the answer.

"It won't be long now," he says, and they both fear it isn't the truth, but she kisses him anyway in the damp air, not willing to do without him. The only other thing he's said tonight is her name. They meld seamlessly together now, and she's not been required to speak a single word.

* * *

* This chapter is dedicated to** Isis the dog** on FF dot net, who leaves me a review every time I post a chapter, but is always logged in as a guest, so I'm unable to reply. I hope you enjoy this, and don't worry about the canon elements that we all know are bearing down on us. We'll see this little series through all the way to the Bates' wedding day. ;)

* Beta by terriejane, gelana78, and downtonluvr. You ladies are awesome.

* care·ful ('kerfəl): 1. making sure of avoiding potential danger, mishap, or harm; cautious. 2. done with or showing thought and attention.

* All of my DA-era fic is related. Find the timeline at lynnsaundersfanfic dot tumblr dot com backslash banna.


	11. Willow

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 11: Willow

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. - Kenneth Grahame_

**April 1916  
**

He meets her in the gardens, where a stone bench stands beneath the outstretched limbs of a willow tree, a private haven amidst a maze of shrubbery. The crickets have started up, and he realizes with a start that it's now properly spring, and another season has passed with her at his side. Her particular brand of loyalty is one he's never before encountered.

The day's rain has soaked the grass, so they aren't able to stroll the well-kept paths. Instead, they sit quietly together, and she holds his hand in her lap. The night sky is gloomy and starless above them, but flowers bloom all around. He remembers her small hands gliding along his bare shoulder blades back in the conservatory, and he has to close his eyes to compose himself. He worries the little stone bench isn't private enough for that.

Yet in many ways, he feels himself becoming more bold. This year, he'd sent her a valentine, completely on a moment's impulse. When he'd come down to breakfast on that February morning, Anna had already seen the card, and her cheeks held a distinct flush. It was delivered through the post, and she'd opened it there at the breakfast table, perhaps not realizing what the envelope might contain, even with the holiday. She had certainly never received a valentine that he could remember. Before she could completely collect her composure, Daisy had inquired about the sender.

Anna had managed a curious expression. "I don't know. It's not signed."

Daisy leaned back in her chair with a faraway look and sighed. "A secret admirer, then?"

"Looks like Molesley's finally gotten up the courage," Thomas had observed, catching Bates' eyes and fixing him with a challenging glare.

He had flashed on the feel of her silken shoulders beneath his lips as he stared steadfastly ahead in the moment, then smirked at his reflection in the hall mirror afterward. Anna had given an apologetic blink, then looked away quickly.

As he moved to pull his napkin into his lap, he'd found a cheerful blue envelope tucked neatly underneath. He had covered it momentarily with his coat sleeve, then deftly moved her gift into his pocket, leaving no one the wiser. Inside was a red foil heart and a single square of chocolate.

That Valentine's Day evening, they had walked hand-in-hand to the conservatory, only to find the door locked, and he'd remembered too late the shattered terracotta pots, the likely source of their undoing.

She'd teased him gently. "You really must be more careful next time, Mr. Bates."

He'd moved a step closer, tucking his fingers into his waistcoat pocket with a sly grin. "If memory serves, it was you who jostled the table."

"And I had no help in the matter?"

He'd broken into a full smile then, and they laughed together as she took his hand. "At least it's pleasant out," she'd said, pulling him to the gardens. That was weeks ago, and this is their new meeting place.

Tonight, he leans back, tipping his head to the April sky. The branches of the willow tree drift in the light breeze, and he and Anna are tucked away together, hidden from the outside world by the delicate fronds.

There's a conversation they need to have, but he hasn't been able to bring himself to ask her. The thought weighs heavily on his mind, pricking his consciousness with escalating urgency as each day comes and goes without word from Vera. Many, many months have slipped quietly by in the mean time.

Anna seems so certain. He wonders if this possibility has crossed her mind at all. She might just feel that they are meant to be, that everything will work out in the end, but he knows better. He's worried. Then, he remembers lying under the stars with her tucked against his side, telling her he'd keep no secrets.

"There's been no word from…" His voice leaves him, and he sighs.

She squeezes his hand. "I know."

"I've worried all along that she won't respond."

She nods slowly, quietly, waiting for him to continue, but that's all he can say. What will become of them? He can't simply let what he has with Anna go now, not after everything they've shared. But he can't very well run away with her either, can he? He'd have no income, no prospects, certainly no reference, and a criminal record to contend with. She would be looked down upon, and she might find getting work difficult even if they were able to keep Vera a secret. The story about Pamuk that is covertly whispered in the corridors of grand houses follows not just Lady Mary, but Anna too. He bows his head, and her fingers run through the hair at the base of his neck.

"What will we do if she never turns up?" He asks the question quietly, almost to himself, and his shoulders sag with the weight of his thoughts. Her small fingers slide along the tense muscles and continue down his arm. His hand still rests in her lap, and she presses the pads of her thumbs into the heel of his palm, making slow circles. He visibly relaxes at her touch.

She remains quiet, her attention moving to the meat of his knuckles, and he finally lifts his eyes to hers. He's pained by the thought of not being with her, and it must show on his face, for her eyes soften as she considers his question.

"I'm not sure," she answers honestly. "But I believe this means we have plenty of time to come up with a plan." She nudges him with her shoulder, and he gives her a small smile.

"What would I do without you?"

She lifts his hand, tracing each of his fingers with hers, and he fights the urge to lace them together. No one has ever touched him like this, like Anna does. She revels in the feel of him, and she doesn't hide it. The electric brush of her hands on his skin is riveting, wholly erotic. He secretly loves to be touched, and no one else has really ever bothered.

"Your heart line is broken." She follows the path along his palm with her index finger. "I've noticed before, in the meadow."

He leans in close. "What does it mean?"

"You hurt," she says, covering the crease with her hand, as if hiding it will heal him, as if she can make it disappear. Maybe she can.

She meets his eyes, and for a long moment there's nothing but the sweet crush of her lips against his. He finds that they fit well together this way, that the little bench is quite useful, as he pulls Anna into his lap and her knees settle on either side of him. She grips his shoulders, and he works her skirts out of the way, his hands landing a finger's length above her garters. He squeezes her thighs, and she turns her face into his neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses along his jawline. He closes his eyes and holds onto her as the evening breeze picks up, rustling the willow, and storm clouds continue to gather above.

* * *

* The quote at the beginning of the chapter is from _Wind in the Willows_.

* Special thanks to terriejane for beta and for requesting that Anna touch Bates' hands, downtonluvr for beta and for prompting a valentine exchange, and gelana for beta and all-around cheerleading.


	12. Rough Winds

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 12: Rough Winds

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer's lease hath all too short a date. - William Shakespeare _

**July 1916**

Anna helps a little boy cast a cane pole over the top of a burlap curtain. The booth has been rigged up with four cloth walls and a hiding place in the middle. In front, a small board reads "Mysteries of the Deep" in bold chalk lettering. There's a tug on the line, and the boy giggles as the pole is bounced about by the weight of the catch on the other end. He raises the pole, bringing the line back into view, and the foil hook now bears a yellow lollipop, covertly tied in place with a bit of ribbon.

"Yes, Henry!" Anna carefully removes the treat and offers it to the lad. He snatches the candy and scampers off.

She sighs and stretches before resetting the line. It's been a long day. When she peeks through the split in the curtains, she finds her mysterious fish kicked back in a lawn chair, a peppermint puff pressed between his teeth.

"Mr. Bates! Those are for the children." Her attempt at affecting a scandalized tone doesn't sound believable. He folds his hands behind his head and smiles around the candy.

The church bazaar is in full swing around them. It seems that every child in attendance has had at least two turns at the fishing pole game, and their supplies are dwindling. He plucks a stick of bubble gum from the basket and offers it to her with a wink. She moves forward to retrieve it, and the curtain falls closed behind her. She stashes the treat in her apron pocket with a smile.

They stare at one another for a moment. It's not often that they can gaze freely in the light of day, and she takes him in, his rolled sleeves and warm eyes. His coat hangs on the back of the chair, and his summer hat is tipped low on his brow. She remembers him sleeping with his head in her lap beneath the oak tree, the curl of their fingers against the quilt, his lips on hers for the first time. Almost two years have passed since that bright summer day, and she can still feel it.

Earlier, she'd been the one chosen to accompany the Dowager Countess to the conservatory, for the flowers selected by the church secretary were "horrendous." The greenhouse looked different in the daylight, bursting with colorful blooms, a stark contrast to its winter barrenness. She had flushed redder than the peonies when, encountering Mr. Bates on the lawn, he'd whispered to be careful not to break anything.

He extends a hand, and she takes it. He presses his other index finger to his lips, reminding her to be quiet before gently pulling her near. She settles into his lap, but dares not lean into his chest or close her eyes. She's worried that if she gives in to the impulse, she'll lose herself in him with all of those people just beyond the curtain - the nativity play all over again. He must have some fascination with distracting her backstage.

She tips the brim of his hat up so that she can see him properly, and he studies her openly, unashamed. He adjusts her collar, and she lets her fingers run over his waistcoat buttons. His fingers skim her cheekbone lightly. She closes her eyes even though she'd just told herself she wouldn't.

"Anna?" Daisy's voice comes abruptly, carried through the fabric wall to their right.

Anna gives a little sigh and separates herself from him. He removes his hat, using it to discreetly hide his lap, and she laughs outright then, pulling the curtain and stepping back out into the afternoon sun.

As they break down the carnival games for the evening, little Henry runs past just as William loses his grip on one of the tent poles. Mr. Bates moves swiftly, with an athleticism most people wouldn't know he possessed, pulling the boy to safety. The sight of the child in his arms makes something deep within her spark and flare, and she has to look away to steady herself.

Later, they sit together in the courtyard and share a handful of leftover cookies. Mrs. Patmore, fierce as she seems at first glance, never hesitates to indulge Anna's sweet tooth. Her blood hums from the sugar and his proximity, and she allows herself a deep breath, an odd sense of calm settling over her as she takes in the buzz of the warm summer night's air. Mr. Bates has limped prominently ever since he snatched the little boy out of harm's way, and she wishes, not for the first time, that she could take away his pain. She knows something else is weighing heavily on his mind. He passes her a cookie, and she smiles tentatively.

"How is your mother?"

He gives a noncommittal shrug and wipes crumbs from his fingers, his reaction carefully guarded so that she won't worry. Anna had pressed the latest letter from his mother into his palm days ago, her brow creased with concern. Mrs. Bates didn't seem herself. The normally measured hand was all loops and bows, and the wording was off.

"I've had the neighbor lady look in, and they're helping her." He sighs, looking at his hands. "The doctor thinks she's only getting confused. She'll manage."

Anna swallows hard and reaches for him. His index finger loops through hers. She can't think of what to say, so she gives his hand an affectionate tug.

"I'm to travel to London with any time I'm able to set aside," he says quietly.

She's known this, of course, and it means she won't be seeing him much in the coming weeks and months - who knows how long. And, she worries for her friend, their secret matchmaker, whose letters always bring Anna cheer and a sense of belonging. "I wish I could come with you."

He brings the back of her hand to his lips. "I know."

Thunder rumbles in the distance, but flashes of lightning are not yet visible. The weather has been tumultuous of late, and she can feel another storm coming. What she can't know is how severe it will be once it arrives.

* * *

He visits London with increasing frequency as the weeks slip by, until finally he is called away one last time, to the inevitable. He writes to Anna while he's away, telling her that he's as well as he can be, that he sees an end in sight, but one that stretches out nearly to the horizon. On his mother's last day of lucidity, he's reading to her in the lamplight when she places a hand on his arm. He looks up, and she directs him to the small jewelry box on the dresser. He retrieves it, and she reaches carefully inside, producing her delicate wedding ring. She passes it to him, and he tucks it into his waistcoat pocket without a word.

A shadow falls then. Looking up, he sees Vera in the doorway. The sensual curve of her lips and her cold, beautiful eyes remain, but she no longer has the power to bring him to his knees. And in that moment, with Vera standing silently behind her, his well-intentioned mother asks after Anna.

* * *

* Hang in there, everyone. *Hands **Isis the dog** a paper bag to breathe into.* We all know what's coming, but we also know how the story ends, and I'm not one to bring extraneous angst into an already angst-filled canon situation. So just know that *I* am not doing this to them, but JF already did, and I'm trying to make it better and fill in the huge blanks he left.

* As always, many thanks to terriejane, gelana78, and downtonluvr for beta.

* All of my DA-era fic is related. Find the timeline at lynnsaundersfanfic dot tumblr dot com backslash banna. Per a request, I've made a masterlist of references to books and music in MoJ, and it's available through this link as well.


	13. Fissure

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 13: Fissure

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_When will this long weary day have end, and lend me leave to come unto my love? - Edmund Spenser_, _Amoretti and Epithalamion_

**November 1916**

She's telling him she's never been so happy, her pale blue eyes wet and shining.

This is a first for him, inspiring tears of joy. Over the years, he has been made acutely aware of only his capacity to hurt others. He would have reached out to touch her face just then, allowing his fingertips to linger against the rise of her cheekbone. He would have pulled her close and kissed away her tears right there in the warmth of the common room; damn the consequences. He feels as if his heart may burst, but now Ethel has slammed her way into the chair across from them, intruding. The moment is lost.

He should have suggested a walk, should've slipped off to the gardens with her in tow to spend a stolen hour together, exploring. He blinks away the image of her fine collarbone, bathed in moonlight, his teeth grazing her there. She would tip her head back just so, closing her eyes as she untucked his dress shirt in the sweet fall air.

Best not to think about it now. The weather is unseasonably cool, and he's not going to lead her to catch her death of cold just so that they can grope each other on a stone bench for a few minutes before they're missed by the rest of the household. He heaves a sigh and straightens in the chair, scowling at their company until he feels Anna's warm hand against his shoulder.

"I fancy some fresh air." She stands and moves to the hall without him.

It's just as well, he thinks. They have such limited time together, and he can really only offer her the hint of a promise, a contingency. His hands scrub his face, and he leans on his elbows, resigned.

She pops her head back around the corner, a thick shawl wrapped around her shoulders. "Wouldn't you enjoy a walk, Mr. Bates?"

His eyes soften, and he rises, slinging on his coat and following her to the familiar courtyard. He will always think of it as their place, back in the mysterious darkness, among the empty crates. She moves into the shadows, illuminating the night, and he goes willingly along with her, leaning his cane against an overturned box.

Something's gotten into her, he realizes as she turns to him and takes him by his tie. The flash of desire in her eyes is unmistakable, and he stalks toward her with purpose until they are pressed together. The stone wall rises up sharply behind her back, blocking the evening chill, and a stack of crates to their left obscures the view from the doorway. Their mouths meet hotly as he cradles her face in his hands.

"Alone at last," she says against his lips.

He leans into her, and her hands slide under the open edges of his coat, wrapping around his waist as she buries her face in his chest. He holds her tightly against him, breath stirring the hair at the crown of her head. He squeezes her, and her answering hum makes him shiver.

"I love you, Anna." He tips her head back and kisses the arch of her neck, the delicate skin behind her ear. He can feel her fingers working at his waistcoat buttons as he whispers to her. She's so small and beautiful, perfect and strong, so dear to him. She is everything, his life, his world. He hopes the jumbled words he's pressing against her ear make sense, that she's able to understand. He looks into her eyes. Yes, she knows.

She gives him a small smile, parting the closure of his waistcoat and moving on to his shirt buttons. He chuckles, catching her hands. He brings them to his lips, kissing her curled fingers.

"I want to touch you," she says softly, eyes open and honest.

He looks up at the night sky, groaning, steeling himself. When his eyes meet hers again, she's wearing a pained expression, vulnerable and unsure. His large hands move to frame her face. "I know, Love. I know. But…" He nods in the direction of the servant's entrance. "Not here."

She licks her lips nervously. "Where, then?"

He sighs, thinking of all they could do, moving in perfect synchrony together. He won't get her into trouble, won't risk coming together fully, not now when so much could change. She's too important to him. But, they can map each other. He can make her unwind with his lips and fingers. He can thoroughly love her.

He shakes his head slowly, thinking. They can't. Can they? Her fingers slip beneath his collar, tracing the back of his neck, and the fine hairs there stand on end in response. He is undone. His cane is knocked from the crate and clatters to the ground as he pulls her up against him, strong hands under her buttocks, pinning her between the heat of his chest and the cool stone wall as their lips meet again. It's a little awkward with her skirts bunched between them, but she seems to get the idea, and her eyes flame for him. He can't refuse her.

"The attic," he says, enjoying her surprised smile.

"When?" Her breath puffs in the frosty air, and he realizes they've been out too long. She's shivering against him.

"Tomorrow." He gently lowers her to the ground and kisses her softly. "Late. I'll have some time in the afternoon to…"

"To get it ready?" she offers, and he smiles.

"You should really go in first." He brushes her hair back into place.

She kisses him again, once, twice more, and reluctantly walks to the door as he rebuttons and adjusts himself, smiling.

Tomorrow.

* * *

The next evening is damp and dark, spotted with rain. She finds him sitting alone on a produce crate, his cane propped against his bad knee, shoulders slumped in defeat. She knows the seat beside him is hers, even though it's not explicitly offered, just as she knows they will not meet in the attic as planned. He had been up there, arranging their secret rendezvous, while she spoke frostily with his wife in the servant's hall. Anna knew instantly. She wonders if Vera knew, too.

They stare off into the alleyway in dejected silence together. He folds his arms across his chest as her head comes to rest on his shoulder. He inhales deeply, then exhales, counting the seconds between breaths, and the night is silent and unmoving around them.

"We're going to make this work," she says against his shoulder.

His eyes cut down to her, and she can feel him watching, but he doesn't speak.

"We can."

Tears sting his eyes as he looks away, and he tells her he must go. After that, she doesn't smile again for a long while.

* * *

* This is for annambates, who requested a courtyard scene following Ethel's interruption of Anna and Bates' planning for the future in the servant's hall. It was this "snip" that finally prompted me to get off my butt and write this series, because I had several chapters that belonged to one another. From there, I decided to go ahead and aim to fill in the blanks over the years and years that the show doesn't give us.

* The quote at the beginning of the chapter is from _Amoretti and Epithalamion_ by Edmund Spenser.

_* _I really, really wanted to use a quote from _The Prophet_ by Kahlil Gibran_,_ but it wasn't published until 1923, and I have this weird thing about only quoting from things Banna could've actually read. _Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation._

* The fact that this ended up being number 13 was a complete and happy accident.

When will this long weary day have end, and lend me leave to come unto my love? - Edmund Spenser, Amoretti and Epithalamion


	14. Gradient

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 14: Gradient

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_I thought I loved him when he went away; I love him now in another degree: he is more my own. - Charlotte Brontë, Villette_

**December 1916**

She won't go down to the party. She can't believe in Christmas without him. She thinks of the months and years before, how every moment seemed to be pushing them slowly together. Finally, she'd thought. Finally. She couldn't have been more wrong.

She can't help replaying it - the hope in his voice as he told her he'd seen Vera, the shocking realness of what was happening. It was the absolute last thing she'd expected to hear, and it startled her so much that she had to ask him what it _meant,_ to spell it all out for her. She needed to hear him say the words aloud. He'd been so giddy that he'd already asked Lord Grantham for permission.

Scarcely a month has passed since she stood painfully frozen in the window, watching him leave, unable to tear her eyes away. It would be better to go back, to make things as they once were. She would much rather he be here, safe and warm and reading quietly beside her at the servants' table, even if he can't be hers. Even if they couldn't truly be together, at least she'd be able to admire him from a distance in public and run her fingers under his lapels in private.

Oh, God, she'd told him she'd live in sin with him. It's true, but she's embarrassed now, thinking of it. Verbalizing such a private thought was terrifying enough, but his rejection broke her. She might as well have gotten down on her knees and begged him not to go. The frightening tearing sensation that wracked her chest as he left her sobbing in the courtyard has been replaced with a dull ache, but the wound to her pride remains substantial, open and raw still. And to think he'd always told her she was strong.

Last Christmas Eve, she was in the conservatory, trailing her fingers along his jawline before venturing lower, over the stout barrel of his chest, down to the thinning line of hair that disappeared into his trousers. He'd melted under her hands, groaned in her ear as she dug her fingernails into the meat of his shoulder, closed his eyes against the pleasure he felt in her touch. Now, she's alone in her room as the celebration carries on downstairs without her.

_Sonnets from the Portuguese_ stares at her from the bedside table. How have three years passed since he pressed the book into her hand and held her close in the arch of the doorway? It is at once a familiar recollection, bright in color and texture, and a distant memory.

She moves the little book, meaning to drop it into the drawer and bury it under a pile of unmentionables. Instead, it falls onto the edge of her bed, the thin pages opening to an unfamiliar verse.

_And yet, because I love thee, I obtain  
From that same love this vindicating grace  
To live on still in love, and yet in vain.  
To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face._

She blinks and retrieves the little book carefully, rereading the lines. She's always harbored this vague suspicion that he speaks to her through the gifted pages. All too often, she's read a line that seems to mirror their lives in just such an intimate way. Coincidences, she thinks. But still…

She'd received one last letter from his mother, dated the day before she passed. It must've gotten held up in the post, for it arrived days after he left Downton. She sighs, remembering that this is the first time in a long while that she hasn't had a Christmas letter from dear Mrs. Bates. The passing of her sweet friend has weighed on her, and now she's lost him too. _He loves you so_, that last letter had said. _I've given Johnny a gift, and it's to be yours._ She can only imagine what it might've been.

He loves her, yes. That's not in doubt. Not really. She's glad now that he was so resolute in enforcing their physical boundaries. She never thought she'd feel that way, but it would be awfully tempting to look at everything between them and chalk it up to lust, availability, and the sweet taste of forbidden love. No, this was real. She sees it in the way he looked at her, the way he held her so carefully. Even their feverish touches in the dark were more about giving her what she wanted than taking anything for himself. She's going to have to put this behind her, to hold him dear, but separate herself from the hurt. She's got to try to move forward and be happy. It's what he wanted, and she'll grant him that. If you love something, let it go - that's what her mum would say. It works both ways, she knows.

She rises, washing her face and putting up her hair. She dresses quickly, then stands at the top of the stairs for a moment, breathing deeply, taking in the raucous noise that drifts up to her from the party below. She descends the stairs and makes her way to Mrs. Hughes' sitting room, where she knocks twice and is greeted warmly. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Patmore are there, drinking champagne in light of the holiday. It's a rare occasion, to be sure. The hint of a smile blooms on her face as the normally stern housekeeper hugs her.

"Anna, my girl, I'm so glad you came down."

"Well," she says, "we all need to spread a little Christmas cheer."

Mr. Carson stands, offering his chair. Mrs. Patmore bustles off, and Anna can hear her chasing revelers out of the kitchen before returning with a plate of biscuits. Mr. Carson pours a glass of champagne, and Anna sips it slowly, enjoying the foreign, bubbling sweetness. She takes a deep breath and melds slowly into the conversation, meeting Mrs. Hughes' eyes and nodding her thanks. She feels measurably older and wiser, standing against time and circumstance with a new air of stoic resignation, a part of their group now. And she realizes that she's being viewed as one of the adults, perhaps for the first time.

* * *

*One of the things that bugs me about Season 2 Ep 1 is that the writers chose to have Anna ask what Bates' encounter with Vera would mean for them. Anna knows damn well what it means. She has to- where else would this be going? I can't accept that Banna hasn't discussed any of this in the two years between S1 and S2. The show wanted to feature the first on-screen kiss, so they used her dialogue to move the story forward. And it bugs me because Anna is quite bright- she wouldn't need to ask anyway. So, I hope that my attempt to explain away the writers' buffoonery was not too heavy-handed.

*The quote is from Sonnets from the Portuguese, verse XI.

*The full text of Villette by Charlotte Brontë is available free online.

*All of my DA-Era fic exists in the same universe. Read more at lynnsaundersfanfic dot tumbr dot com backslash banna. This will also take you to a masterlist of literary and musical works referenced in the MoJ series.

*Thanks, as always, to my wonderful beta team: terriejane, gelana78, and downtonluvr.


	15. Waiting

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 15: Waiting

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_I was made and meant to look for you and wait for you and become yours forever. - Robert Browning_

**April 1917**

He lies awake in his small rented room in the evenings, remembering the feel of her, pressing the images into his mind until they are permanently ingrained. She had tiny wrists, surprisingly sturdy hands for their size. Her golden hair was always swept up away from her shoulders, and only once did he get a chance to run his fingers through it properly. She always took the chair next to him. Her weight had lifted easily against the courtyard wall their last real night together, and she'd wanted him badly. It was written plain on her face.

The noise from the pub downstairs wafts up through the floorboards, and he lets his eyes drift shut, trying to block it out. He can't bring himself to visit her at Downton, won't even write her. He has no reason to expect her to accept him now after everything he's put her through. Still, the thought of her never leaves his mind.

He'd held his mother's wedding ring - Anna's ring - clasped tight in his hand all the way to Downton Station, back in November. After his mother passed, he had met with the lawyers as quickly as they would see him, and then he'd caught the first available train home to Anna. When he had opened his palm to look at it in wonder, to make certain it was real, the delicate band was but half the size of his smallest knuckle. She couldn't wear an engagement ring, and he knew he wouldn't give it to her yet, but still he couldn't wait to see her. He's kept the ring with him wherever he went, even with all that's happened between them. Now, he lies in his solitary bed and holds the cherished golden band between his fingers, turning it so that it catches the candlelight.

He's heard Downton is now a convalescent home, and he wonders if she will visit the wounded men, reading to them as they once did together. Will she pick daffodils on her half days and bring the cheerful flowers to their bedsides? Obviously, she has an affinity for wounded soldiers. The thought makes him smile sadly.

He's a month gone from London. Vera had left him alone, thank God. After he'd flinched away from her as she tried to touch his face that first night, she'd gone stone-cold and still, her blue eyes flashing with anger, but she'd let him be. She doesn't truly want him, anyway. She only wants what she can't have, has only ever desired such things. Not like Anna, who loved him quietly for so long, even though he had nothing to offer her.

Anna took nothing from him. She only ever wanted his companionship and his touch, his love. And, he knows, what she had come to desire the most was to share his life and his bed properly. When that possibility seemed taken away for good, she had offered her body anyway, willing to sacrifice her honor so that they wouldn't have to part. The curse of knowing her so well was that he also knew just what to say to push her away. She'd looked up at him in that moment, stunned, with fiery tears in her eyes, and she was achingly beautiful even so. Turning from her in the silent chill of the courtyard that night was the single most painful thing he's ever experienced, a searing agony that rivaled even the crack of a mortar shell against bone.

He presses the flat of his palm across his chest and breathes in, blinking back bitter tears. What would've become of them, had they simply run away together? He has no more responsibility to his mother, and he could've left Vera with the house and simply disappeared. Maybe to America. But, they'd be leaving the Grantham household to deal with the fallout of the sensational story about Pamuk, and Anna wouldn't do that to Mary. He couldn't do it to Robert, either. He draws his hands across his face, sighing, missing her terribly.

If only he could see her, even from a distance, just to lay eyes on her. Hopefully, he'd find her safe and happy, and he wouldn't interfere. He'd simply watch from afar with a protective eye. The thought is tempting, dangerous yet impossible to push away. No, he reasons, it's too risky. He's taken great pains to conceal his residence here until the divorce is granted. He's not thought the next steps through clearly, but his vague plan is to show up and beg for forgiveness. If he gets tangled up with her again now, it might ruin everything he's planned for. But in the end, as the weeks slip by with no word from the judge or his lawyer, the idea will prove impossible to push away. He must see her.

* * *

He's been watching her for a while, really. The first Wednesday, he situates himself across the small park on a bench, angled away from the storefront. He watches her under the brim of his hat as she comes and goes, smiling as she blinks against the bright sunshine. The next time he ventures out to catch a glimpse of her, it's been raining. She carries an umbrella and bustles about, the parcels balanced in her free hand with practiced efficiency. He can't get a satisfactory look at her face, so the next week he moves closer, coming to stand behind a large oak tree, boldly leaning on his cane in front of the shop's door. She looks up as she enters, and he holds his breath. She waves, and he realizes she's seen an acquaintance on the street. He finds he's disappointed that she didn't catch him. On the third week after that, she looks up and almost meets his eyes. And though he hurries away, a sore leg the price he pays for his cowardice, he is certain that he has afforded her a full glimpse of him, and he burns with worry and anticipation.

* * *

* The Robert Browning quote is from a letter he wrote to his wife Elizabeth in November of 1845. I would strongly encourage any romantics out there to read their letters to one another, which are available free online. I ship them so hard.

* As always, many thanks to terriejane, gelana78, and downtonluvr for beta.

* All of my DA-era fic is related. Find the timeline at lynnsaundersfanfic dot tumblr dot com backslash banna. Per a request, I've made a masterlist of references to books and music in MoJ,and it's available through this link as well.


	16. Forward

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 16: Forward

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_One loving hour can make up for many years of sorrow. She forgot all that she had suffered; she spoke no more of the past. True love never looks back, but always forward. - Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queen_

**July 1917**

She'd steeled herself, preparing to see him, and she's glad of it now. He once promised her he'd keep no secrets between them, and he makes good, laying it all out while she stares him down, initially unmoved. She's angry, rightly so, and she aims to show him.

She knows instantly, when he tries to minimize it, just which damning story Vera has caught wind of, and all of her anger begins to evaporate as she realizes that his leaving was, in part, a misguided attempt to protect her. She wants to cry at the irony. How can he not know that she needs nothing but him, that he's all that truly matters? Her resolve melts away completely when he tells her he loves her, right out in the open. She can't keep up her icy facade, not when she sees the unguarded hope in his eyes.

She'd promised herself she wouldn't mention it ever again, the wound of being turned down still too raw and open, yet the confession falls from her lips anyway. She would be his mistress. She would willingly and openly go to bed with him and carve out a life together, turning a blind eye to the whispers she'd garner, ignoring the scandalized stares. Her want of him defies logic, and they don't need a piece of paper to know they belong to one another. She places her hand in his, accepting his unspoken invitation when she sees that his eyes hold no judgement, only warmth and understanding. And when he lets her down gently, she almost feels relieved.

Soon, his break is over, and she's met with the choice of either staying to watch him work or going about her day as if nothing earth-shattering has happened. She decides the latter in the end, and he squeezes her hands in his before she moves to leave. She knows he wants to kiss her, and he brazenly does so in the middle of the pub, lips grazing her temple and lingering for a moment before he releases her. None of the patrons care.

His eyes hold hers. "I love you," he whispers, and she'll never tire of hearing him say it. "Anna, I've missed you so."

She smiles and dips her head, and then she must be on her way. She can feel his eyes on her until she steps through the door and out into the brilliant sunlight of the summer afternoon. He has come back to her.

When he writes each week, there's no return address, and the envelope is filled out in a disguised hand to allay suspicion, something he's remarkably good at. They require privacy. The situation between them is so precarious, so awkwardly new, yet achingly familiar, and they need not attract unwanted attention. His letters are warm and comfortable, full of love, and she always writes him back.

He asks, and she agrees to return to Kirkbymoorside on her next half day. He's taken time off to meet her, and they walk quietly together, pretending to browse the storefronts. When he offers his arm, she takes it without hesitation.

The next time they meet, he's waiting for her at the pub's side entrance with a picnic basket and a questioning smile. Before long, they are lounging together beneath an oak tree, the thick canopy of leaves muting the wilting heat of the summer sun. It's warm even for August, and they're both damp with sweat from the walk. A little stream runs nearby, and she removes her shoes and stockings stealthily, rising to wade into the cool water while he strips down to his shirtsleeves and watches her surreptitiously from the safety of the blanket. She has always admired him in the lighter colors of his summer hat, and even though things aren't completely right between them yet, she lets him kiss her breathless as the sun dips low in the west. She wears a satisfied smirk all the way back to Downton.

At their third meeting, they sit down to tea together before she catches the evening bus home. A lingering thunderstorm as kept them inside, therefore in public, and the day feels like a missed opportunity. He stares intently at her for a moment, uncertain. She meets his eyes expectantly.

"I need to ask a favor, and I'm not sure what you'll say." He looks down at his shoes. "I've gotten word that Vera has left London."

She stiffens at the mention of his wife's name, and some of the distant hurt filters into her voice. "Well, that's welcome news."

He looks decidedly worried, opening his hands on the tabletop in a silent request for hers. She hesitates but a moment before completing the connection between them.

"I hope so." He sighs bitterly. "I need to go, to make sure the house is still in one piece and close it up properly for the time being. I... There's no telling how she's left it."

She remembers a conversation between them, long ago now, about the breadth and velocity of Vera's temper, and she imagines glass shattering in the warm comfort of his mother's home.

"I'm wondering if you'll come with me." His eyes don't leave hers. "I need you to come."

Mrs. Hughes agrees to Anna's time off with a worried look. Anna doesn't say where she's going. She'd lie for him, but the housekeeper doesn't ask, so she isn't forced to.

* * *

By the time they're able to visit London, it's already September. The weather is warm but not oppressive, and the sunlight moves in at a different angle. The summer has drifted by, but it's not yet properly autumn either, and the seasons are balanced on a blade's edge. She wants to tumble headlong into the sensation of change the fall will bring.

The exterior of the little house appears normal, if a bit unkempt, the summer weeds grown in thick between the stone path and the facade. He breathes a short-lived, audible sigh of relief. They enter through the rear door into the kitchen, and his face falls as glass crunches under his heel. His mother's china cabinet has been emptied onto the floor. Anna steps in behind him, surveying the damage, and she's immediately glad she came. He needs her nimble efficiency. He can't handle this on his own.

They stand side-by-side in the small kitchen, and she reaches for his hand, holding it tight as he sighs bitterly and leans against his cane. They linger there together for a moment, presenting a united front to the disarray, before Anna squares her shoulders and moves to place her bag on the kitchen table. She pulls out an apron and ties it on.

"I'll handle the kitchen," she says, wanting to leave the more private things to him. He gives an understanding nod. She moves to the closet and fetches the broom, preparing to set to work. "Alright then, take stock while I start in here. Gather all the linens, and we'll get them to the wash first thing. It'll be extra to get them back today."

He continues to nod absently, overwhelmed.

Her eyes soften. "It'll go faster than you think," she says. "We just have to jump in with both feet."

He catches her hand then, squeezing it meaningfully. "Thank you."

She swallows the lump in her throat and bustles about, setting things right. He watches her work for a moment, giving a weak smile before taking a deep breath and venturing into the rest of the house. She sets about the task at hand just as she would any day at Downton. Sweeping first today, obviously. She collects all of the broken pieces of his mother's finest and empties the dustpan into the rubbish bin with a sigh. Next, the cupboards get a wholesale cleaning. The sink is shined and the counters are scrubbed in short order.

Soon he reappears, carrying a large laundry bag, his expression strained. The rest of the house must be just as bad. He doesn't have to say so. She moves to collect the linens.

"I'll take them," he says, slinging the laundry bag over his shoulder.

"It would do you good to get out and walk for a bit. Get some fresh air," she agrees.

He nods. "And I'll stop at the market. Anything you'd like?"

"Tea?" She smiles. "I don't cook much." She means at all. Coming up in the servants' quarters of large houses didn't lend itself to learning much of anything in the kitchen.

His lips curve upward ever so slightly at that. "I can make something."

She looks at him curiousy.

"I can."

He kisses her cheek before he turns to leave, and she goes about putting the house back to rights, enjoying the work as long as she forces herself to ignore the cause of it all. By the time he returns, the little house is nearly transformed. Sunlight and fresh air stream in from the open windows as they put the finishing touches on the sitting room, and he collapses into a heap upon the sofa, mentally and physically exhausted.

They take turns in the bath late in the afternoon, washing away the grime of the day, and he prepares the only thing he knows how to make well- an omelette with bits of ham and cheese. Summer fruit was in plenty at the market, and they save it for dessert, sharing the same plate. They sit side-by-side at the table, and it's almost like old times.

After supper, they drowse together on the sofa for a long while, until her eyelids grow unbearably heavy. Earlier, he'd found his copy of _The Scarlet Letter _and smiled, passing it to her. "Do you remember?" he'd said. She thinks it's amusing that he had to ask. Of course she remembers. Old history, that.

* * *

She's fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped tightly around her. He brushes the hair from her face, waking her gently. It's been so long since he really held her that the feel of it is slightly foreign.

He follows her to the foot of the stairs, where she hesitates with a sigh. "We've forgotten the fresh linens."

"I'll get them," he offers. "You go on."

"Would you?" She smiles. "Thank you."

He roams about the lower level of the house, circling and protective, checking the doors and windows, pulling the curtains. He retrieves the fresh stack of linens, folded neatly on the sparkling table, along with a spare candlestick, just in case.

When he returns, Anna has settled into what was once his room, usually reserved for guests when his mother was alive. She's in her night clothes, and she's flitting about, readying for bed. He needn't show her the washroom or where the extra quilts are - she already knows - and he finds himself uncertain of how to deal with the etiquette of the situation. He lights the extra taper for her and moves into the room, placing it at the bedside, watching with interest as she unpins her hair and works it into a loose braid. He thinks she seems almost too calm.

They make the bed together. Anna had set the rest of the little bedroom right earlier in the day, and the freshly laundered linens look so welcoming. The simple domesticity of sharing space with her is intoxicating, and he lingers in the doorway, loathe to part with her for the evening. The sheets for the master room are folded in his hands, but he doesn't want to go back in there, not after her presence and companionship have chased away all the memories this day has conjured up. More than that, he simply doesn't want to be without her, and he knows they'll be parting again soon enough.

She takes the linens from him and rests them on the dresser with an empathetic smile. "I'll handle it tomorrow, if you don't want to."

He feels just a little foolish, and he fidgets, unsure of what to do. He'll sleep on the sofa, he thinks, and she must know what's on his mind, for she stops him as he turns to go, placing the flat of her hand against his chest.

"Stay with me." She meets his eyes, and he finds there's no challenge there, only a warm sleepiness and love. "Please."

He smiles and fetches his kit from the hallway. In the washroom, he soaps up once more, letting the cool water from the basin run over his shoulders and chest, down his thighs. As he dries off, he inspects himself in the mirror. He's still wide and stout, but he's a little soft around the middle these days, what with years of dealing with a bad leg and hearty doses of Mrs. Patmore's cooking. He finds he's quite nervous. Their night together on the sofa notwithstanding, it's been years since he shared a bed with anyone, even innocently.

He hangs his discarded clothing on the back of the door. When he's alone, he prefers to sleep with nothing on, and he wonders briefly if he can forgo his shirt. No, he decides. That would be too presumptuous, but he does place the cool cotton of his pajamas directly against his bare skin, leaving his underthings in the laundry bag. He'd never be able sleep with so many layers on.

She has already claimed the left side of the bed. The bedroom window is open, and the sweet summer night breeze filters in, rustling the curtains. She smiles shyly at him as he extinguishes the candles and moves onto the mattress beside her. She waits for him to settle onto his back, then slides closer, easing into his open arms, her head on his chest.

"I've never done this before," she says, and he smiles into her hair in the dark. "It's wonderful."

He's so tired, and she feels so good, so right in his arms that he lets his eyes drift shut to savor it, and he's lost in sleep almost immediately. When he wakes deep in the night, they've separated, and she stirs and stretches beside him. She blinks, smiling when she remembers where she is. He's taken with this, lying awake beside her in the warmth of the late summer evening, enveloped in her scent. Something about the near-complete darkness makes him brave, and he moves onto his side, turning toward her.

Their kisses are soft initially, his lips brushing hers lightly, but she leans into him all the same. Their eyes meet and hold for long moments. Her small hands move to frame his face, and he sighs. "Anna, I am so sorry."

Her expression is serious, and her fingers slip into the hair at the base of his neck. "Just don't ever push me away again."

"Never," he swears, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Never. You have my word."

She studies his face for a long while. "I believe you." Her smile, when it comes, is radiant even through the night's shadows. She presses her forehead against his, and their breath mingles above her pillow. He finds her hand and threads their fingers together. Her lips part as if she wants to speak, but the words won't leave her.

"What's the matter?"

"It's just…" She looks up at the ceiling. "Do you ever wonder if things would've turned out differently, if we'd had a chance to meet in the attic?" She plays with the collar of his pajama top as he considers his answer.

His restless mind had drifted back to their interrupted plans many a time during their separation. "I'd like to think I might've stayed, but…" She nods, and he sighs guiltily. "I thought I was doing the right thing for you."

Her eyes go wide, and she starts to interrupt him, but he forges quickly ahead. "But I know now how wrong I was. It's just hard to believe that I could be good for anyone. I'm embarrassed, thinking of it now."

She gives an exasperated huff and rolls her eyes at him. "Mr. Bates…"

He's tickled by her formality in addressing him, a habit so ingrained that it comes through even when they are wrapped around one another and sharing a bed. He can't help smiling. "Yes, Miss Smith?"

She swats him with the back of her hand playfully, but this only serves to remind him of the hundred other times she's done it in everyday settings, making their current circumstances even more hilarious in his view. His laughter is apparently contagious, for she breaks into a wide grin and giggles beside him.

"It's so good to see you smile," he says against her shoulder.

"I'm embarrassed too," she admits quietly. "I would live in sin with you if that's what it comes down to, but in my heart I want so much more for myself. For us and our children."

He hums thoughtfully. They've been lovers for a while now, in the truest sense of the word, setting technicalities aside, and they will be together eventually no matter the cost. He tells her this, and her answering hug nearly squeezes the life out of him.

She gives a contented sigh, pulling him against her, tucking his head under her chin, and he can hear her heartbeat against his ear. He nuzzles her neck, and her breath hitches, the energy shifting suddenly between them. He raises his head to look at her, and her eyes are dark with desire.

He reaches out to touch her braid, running his fingertips along the plait before pulling the ribbon. She watches as he separates the lines, shaking her hair loose. He sifts his fingers through the golden weight, then strokes her cheek, following the curve of her neck until he meets the collar of her nightgown. He hesitates only a moment before letting his fingers run under the fabric there, and she shivers. He looks from her lips to her eyes and back again before closing the space between them.

The moonlight spilling through the open window bathes her in blues and greys as her fingers move to his chest, releasing the top button of his night shirt. This time, he doesn't still her hands or move away. "Anna?"

Her eyes shift nervously to his face, and he keeps his expression carefully passive. "Anna, are you certain you want this?" He can't bring himself to say "me."

She holds his gaze as she releases the next button. "I know we can't… not yet, but..." She trails off, and he gives her shoulder an understanding squeeze. She pulls another button. "I need to touch you."

He requires no further explanation, doesn't have to hear any more. He frees the last several buttons for her, but allows her to lead from there. Her small hands slide under the open edges of his shirt, against the sensitive skin of his chest, and he trembles beneath her touch.

She tugs at him, and he sits up long enough to shrug out of his shirt, tossing it toward the foot of the bed before settling back down beside her. She rises onto her knees, leaning over to kiss him, her hair falling around her face. He tangles his fingers in the honeyed strands, and she smiles down at him. Her small hands slide along his collarbones and over his shoulders to grip his forearms as she eases onto him, straddling his belly.

This is the first time in all their meetings that they don't feel rushed and secretive. Instead, they're safe and comfortable, and no one will interrupt. They have time. He works his hands under the hem of her nightgown slowly, his fingers drawing languid circles along her bare thighs, slipping just under the edges of her bloomers. She hums and drags her fingers along the furrow at his breastbone. He works her nightgown out of the way, bunching it in his fists as she kisses him. He can feel the hardened points of her nipples as they brush tantalizingly against his chest through the thin fabric, driving him wild. He allows his hands to drift slowly up to her hips, squeezing her there, enjoying the way his fingers sink into the curves of her flesh. She reaches down between them and tugs her nightgown off over her head.

His hands frame her face, and he can't quite believe that they're here right now, that she's rising above him wearing only her knickers, and that she fits so well against him. She moves his hands up to cup her perfect breasts, and they both close their eyes for a moment, riding the current that arcs between them. His hands slide over her ribcage, down to span her waist, then back to the soft weight of her breasts. She sighs and tosses her hair. He pulls her closer, and their lips meet hungrily as his thumbs tease the eager peaks of flesh.

He kisses her jaw, the arch of her neck, her collarbones. She cries out at the first brush of his lips against her nipples. He suckles her, smiling around the mouthful, and her hips begin to roll slowly against his bare abdomen. He eggs her on, squeezing her buttocks as his lips move to her other breast. Soon, she's grinding herself on him, a tangle of heated sighs escaping her as she digs her fingernails into the back of his neck. He grazes her nipple with his teeth, and she bucks and shudders, coming hard against him with a low, keening cry.

She clamps her hand over her mouth in amused shock. He tugs her fingers away gently, kissing them.

"Don't be embarassed, Love." He places her palm against his cheek, grinning up at her. "We don't have to be quiet here."

"It wasn't supposed to happen like that," she admits, and they giggle together.

He brushes her hair from her face. "What exactly had you hoped for?"

She smiles conspiratorially, tracing his lips with her fingers, and his mouth falls open. He realizes suddenly that she knows far more than he'd previously considered, that he doesn't have to be quite so restrained with her, after all. He is in deep, deep trouble, in the best possible way.

She reaches up to smooth her hair, gathering it behind her head, and the motion makes her breasts jut wantonly toward him. "Maids gossip, Mr. Bates."

His voice leaves him in a heated rasp. "Do they indeed?" He strokes her sides, and she leans over to kiss him again.

"Definitely," she says, her lips hovering above his.

He imagines her completely bared to him, her head thrown back, writhing on the pillows as he laps at her. "Well, I rather like that idea." He grips her hips and eases her down onto his lap, loving the way she gasps as the evidence of his desire pushes up against her through their clothing. "What else have you heard about?"

She looks at him from under her eyelashes, running her fingers past his navel, along the trail of hair that disappears into his pajama bottoms, and he groans. She slides her fingertips under the waistband, judging his response, and when he doesn't stop her, she pulls the fabric carefully over his hips. He moves to help her, and she rises to her knees at his side so that she can work his pants down his legs. They join the pile of clothing at the foot of the bed.

He can feel the heat of her gaze wandering over the expanse of his body, taking him in, lingering at his thick calves, the puckered scars along his right leg, the obvious state of his arousal, and then his eyes. Slowly, carefully, she moves to touch his injured leg, and he forces himself not to tense when her fingers test the mottled skin there.

"Does it hurt?"

"No," he answers honestly. "Only when it bears weight."

She nods and moves lower, down to run her fingers along his calves, gripping his ankles. He heaves a shuddering sigh as she slowly works her way back up his body, stopping to trace the furrows of his pelvic bones. Her hands land on his chest, and he touches her face gently.

She smiles approvingly. "You're quite lovely," she says, and he gives a self-deprecating chuckle. "You are," she insists, stretching out against his side, her left leg sliding over his right.

He pulls her to him, kissing her deeply as her small fingers move incrementally lower on his belly. When she finally takes him in hand, he gasps against her lips. She strokes him tentatively in the beginning, watching and learning him.

"Is this alright?" she asks, and he huffs out a breath, nodding. She grins then, easing down beside him. When it dawns on him what she's about to do, he nearly faints. She traces his straining erection with her parted lips, and he reaches out to touch her face once more.

"You don't have to."

"I want to," she says, and she lets the hot length of him slide between her lips.

He can scarcely breathe, it feels so good to be loved this way. "God, Anna," he sighs, tangling his hands in her hair. She hums her answer, and the vibration of it makes him growl. He tries in vain to keep his hips still as her lips move against him, down and up in an endless rhythm. Her tongue does a little circling dance as she pulls at him, and he is driven perilously close to the edge. "Anna, I'm…" She slides down again, and he tugs frantically at her. "I want to kiss you."

She obliges, and he pulls her lips up to his, but her nimble fingers don't stop working against him. A thought pushes its way to the front of his mind as he feels himself start to let go, that she might not know about _that._ He forces his eyes open, meaning to warn her. She's wearing a wicked smile. She knows. She's so unbelievably good at this, and he's so close that the sight of her pink tongue moving across her plump bottom lip is his undoing. He screws his eyes shut as he spills into her hands with a muffled groan.

She kisses him slowly down from his high, and he lies motionless, his breath ragged. "You're going to be the death of me," he rumbles, and she gives him a proud little smirk. He sits up carefully, using his discarded pajama top to clean up the mess and tossing it to the floor. She blinks sleepily, already snugged back down into her pillow, and she turns over to get comfortable. He pulls the disheveled covers up around them and moulds himself against her bare back.

"When can I see you again?" she asks, and he chuckles.

"Anna, you may visit any time you like. Of that you can be certain."

"Not like this, though," she laments.

"No, we'll need to be quieter." He rises onto his elbow behind her, leaning over to find her lips, and she giggles in his arms. It's the most extraordinary sound he's ever heard.

"I love you," she says softly.

"And I love you," he replies, holding her tight.

Outside, the morning sun threatens the horizon. Fall is coming on fast, just a few more weeks away, and he finds himself longing for the magic of that time of year, the season of ancient bonfires and chameleon leaves. He hugs her close and sighs, knowing they are headed their separate ways in the evening. As the summer winds down, the memories of the love they shared in the depths of the night will be even sweeter. For now, he curls behind her, burying his nose in her hair and breathing deeply, at peace.

* * *

*This chapter was a long time coming, one I'd planned from the beginning, but it would not have come together like this without (in alphabetical order):

annambates, who prompted _it wasn't supposed to happen that way_.

gelana78, who prompted _laundry night, _encouraged me to continue to tie the story into the seasons, and who puts up with my ridiculous and sometimes terribly blunt/M-rated tumblr messages.

handy-for-the-bus, who prompted _blade_. (We might revisit this prompt again later.)

terriejane, who encouraged me wholeheartedly when I told her that I wanted to write Anna and Bates at his mother's house. I worried it might be too farfetched, and asked her to shoot me down before I wrote it and fell in love with it and had to scrap it. She helped me get them to London, and when she worried that Vera might trash Mrs. Bates' home in her anger, I knew immediately that she was right. The rest of the story poured out from there.

And to the the many of you who lamented the fact that Anna and Bates never got to meet in the attic back in November, well, I hope this thoroughly makes up for it. :)

* Beta for this series is provided by these wonderful ladies: terriejane, gelana78, and downtonluvr.


	17. Rain

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 17: Rain

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_Autumn_..._ Thou comest to fill with hope the human heart, and strengthen it to bear the storms awhile, till winter days depart. - John Howard Bryant_

**November 1917**

He leans against the stone wall of the pub in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, tapping his cane lightly in the dirt. Something about the waiting causes a sudden, intense urge for a cigarette, a desire he's not experienced in years, and he shakes it away. He'd once heard Anna say that she disliked the smoke, and he'd not had another after that. He blinks in the autumn sunshine, trying to get a feel for the day. He has watched with impatience as the leaves turned to brilliant reds and yellows. This time of year always gives him a consuming sense of anticipation, and he wonders what's coming next for them. It's been nearly a year since he left Downton.

Two weeks ago, an early hard frost had burst one of the large beer barrels. Not long after, the distinct nip in the air had given way to the hazy heat of indian summer, not a cloud in the sky. He'd suggested a picnic, thinking it might be nice to recapture their warm summer days together before the weather becomes too poor for it. Today, the sun is out, but the temperature is wavering, and there's an unmistakable dampness flooding back into the air. He wonders idly if the weather will hold at all.

Anna has been kept busy with an endless stream of house parties that constantly rearrange her schedule, and he has had to travel to London to meet with his mother's lawyer more than once. As such, they have shared only letters and a handful of hurried moments together in tea rooms since the summer melted into fall. Now, he waits for her at the pub's side door as always, smiling when he sees the bus in the distance. Anna has been afforded the gift of a rare Sunday off to atone for the several half days she's worked through of late. They'll have six precious hours together.

"Hello," he says, keeping his voice even and calm. She's wearing a rich cream blouse not unlike the one that distracted him so long ago in the spring meadow. A casual observer might not guess what sparks between them in private, but she can see the heat in his eyes.

He ushers her through the staff entrance, and as soon as the door creaks closed behind them, they cling to one another in the low light of the back hall. They rest there together, her head tucked under his chin, his arms tight around her, and he nuzzles the crown of her head. It's been far too long. He has physically ached for her. He stoops to kiss her, and she smiles.

"I've missed you," she says, and they grin at one another.

She collects the basket, tucking the quilt under her arm, and they walk hand-in-hand to their picnic spot. He's brought a bit of cheese, some mincemeat pies, and a pear tart, ostensibly for them to share. She eyes the food appreciatively, and he doesn't object when she reaches for the dessert first. Truly, he brought it just for her.

They eat and read and laze about in the intermittent sunshine as the breeze shifts around them, stirring the leaves of the oak in ever-changing patterns. He glares up at the contrary sky as if it could be intimidated into behaving, then lies back with her head nestled in the crook of his arm, and he closes his eyes. Just for a moment, he tells himself. When he's jostled awake, it's not immediately clear how much time has passed. Large rain drops have begun to fall, and Anna is quickly packing their supplies. The walk to the pub is long and uncomfortable with the steady beat of rain, and he broods about their interrupted day all the way back. He supposes she'll catch an earlier bus now. He misses her already.

They duck back through the pub's staff door to escape the rain. The clinking of glasses and wisps of conversation from the main room float down the hallway to meet them. She folds her arms across her chest and shivers. His suit jacket is hanging right there on the rack beside the door, and he tucks her into it. The coat dwarfs her. He's reminded of snow, the arch of the servant's entrance at Downton, a bit of mistletoe. He reaches out to skim her cheekbone with his thumb, but this time, so many years later, he feels completely free to kiss her. Her lips are soft and warm, and he quickly realizes that he doesn't want this to end. He holds her close, trying to be strong and sensible.

"I don't want to leave you yet," she says softly. "I just need to get warm."

"You need to go home and get out of your wet clothes," he says with genuine concern.

She looks up at him then, eyes wide and clear, perhaps a little uncertain about what he'll say. Her silent question is something he finds impossible to deny. He glances around the hall. No one has seen them come in. Then he sighs, looking at the ceiling for a moment before searching her eyes again, making sure she's certain about this. They both know there's no turning back, and he wordlessly acknowledges what will inevitably flare between them if they allow themselves to be warm, safe and hidden away in his room. They're thinking of the same thing, he knows. He takes her hand and opens the first door on the left. She readily succumbs to the electric pull between them.

He stands still, listening, his breath loud in the warm dust of the empty stairwell. There shouldn't be anyone here, but he's not certain. He waits a beat, then a moment more before pulling her in behind him and climbing the stairs as swiftly as he can. He's the sole occupant of the upstairs rooms, and he lets his guard down somewhat when they clear the steps.

The hall floorboards creak underfoot, and she presses her fingers to her mouth. Not with worry, he realizes. She's giggling softly, trying to muffle the sound, and he loves her so much in that moment that he pulls her close, against his better judgement, crushing her to him right there in the hallway, flush with the door of his rented room.

She reaches back to fumble with the doorknob, as his hands are otherwise occupied, roaming beneath the coat that brands her as his. Her skin is marked with his scent, and she smells of soap and pomade, of rain. Finally, the latch gives, and they stumble inside, his cane knocking against the door. He tosses it lightly onto the bed so that it won't clatter to the floor and attract unwanted attention. She's already got him out of his waistcoat, and he kicks the door closed behind them, backing her against the dresser. He pushes his jacket off over her shoulders and lets it fall. She shrugs out of her blouse, and he composes himself long enough to hang it on the back of the door before his greedy mouth moves to warm her neck and shoulders. The rain has soaked through, and her breasts are outlined against the fabric of her chemise. He pulls her tight against him, groaning into her ear. When he lifts her easily onto the table top to get her lips closer to his, an empty brass candle holder is knocked to the floor, rolling around on its rim with a metallic trill before rattling into place. She stifles her laughter into his chest, and he hugs her close. So much for being quiet.

He moves to kiss her again, but the bar boy's voice pulls him up short. "Mr. Bates, are you quite alright?" The disembodied words echo through the door. The lad is of a much more appropriate age to be sneaking girls up to his room, and John feels an uncharacteristic, exhilarating swell of pride at their indescretion.

Months from now, he will sit at the bar downstairs, telling Lord Grantham that he's done nothing to be ashamed of, and the words will taste true. What would shame him would be to lead her on, to take liberties and then leave, to take risks with too high a social price for her, to misrepresent his love - none of these apply. He could never regret what passes between them in private moments, neither the pleasure he feels in her touch, nor the way she responds to him with such fervor. Nothing could be so right, and it's no one's business but their own.

He tucks Anna carefully behind the door as he opens it just a crack. The lad's face is innocent and worried, and he doesn't suspect. They'll not be found out.

"I was just catching up on the unloading in the store room, and I heard something heavy hit." The young man nods down the hall. He is courteous and driven, and he'll do well for himself.

"I only dropped the candle stand." John puts on his best mentorship face. "This is your half day. Go on home, Will. Isn't there some young lady you should be off reading with?" The lad smiles and nods before making his way downstairs.

She leans against the door when he closes it, removing her heels so that her steps will be soundless against the wood of the floor. She deftly unhooks her skirt, stepping out of it and letting it fall. He retrieves the candle holder and inspects it closely. It's not broken, after all. It's strong and sturdy, and it would take far more than a brief tumble to end it.

Her small hands slide around his waist from behind. When she hugs him barefoot, her forehead barely reaches his shoulder blades. He sets the candle stand safely on his bedside table and turns to her. She's still trembling, both from the chill of the rain and the intensity of his touch, and he pulls the blanket from the foot of his bed, wrapping her in it. She takes down her hair so that it might dry, and he fetches a flannel. She towels the golden length, then moves along her neck and the tops of her breasts. Seeing her this way is vastly more intimate in the light of day, and he's suddenly shy of her all over again. He turns away, moving to light the little stove for her. He lingers there while she rustles about, peeling off her wet clothes and laying them out to dry. He swallows hard when he hears the unmistakable click of the clasps at her busk, her sigh of relief as the corset gives. He finds his waistcoat and jacket, hanging them on the hook with her blouse and checking the time. They've only two more hours together.

He turns back to her then, and the sight of her standing there with her tousled hair, barefoot and wrapped in his mother's quilt, makes all of his worry fall away. She comes to him slowly, whispering.

"Have you ever snuck a girl into your bedroom before, Mr. Bates?"

He shakes his head, no, and rests his hands on her hips as she reaches up to pull the knot from his tie. The blanket gives slightly, slipping down her shoulders. She can't quite manage the stud at his collar, so he helps her.

"I've never been in a gentleman's room before, either."

"No?" The thought of their night in London still brings a heated flush, and he grins down at her.

"Well, not exactly."

Her fingertips trail across his lips, and he raises both eyebrows slightly, remembering a promise he made. He's fairly certain she's thinking of it, too. She reads his eyes and blushes. His hands move to frame her face.

"Are you warm enough, Love?" He tucks her hair behind her ears.

She nods, but her lips are still trembling. He directs her gently to the bed, pulling back the covers and settling her there. She bundles in the blankets and blinks contentedly against his pillow as he moves about the room. He fits a candle into the holder and lights it, bathing the room in a soft glow. The storm outside is picking up, and the window is cold and grey, streaked with rain. He sheds his wet clothing a layer at a time, conscious of her eyes on him. When he removes his undershorts and pulls on a fresh pair, she smiles into his pillow. He reaches for dry trousers, then stops, uncertain, worried she'll feel too exposed or vulnerable if he dresses.

He stands at the bedside. "Are you comfortable?"

"Very." She smiles.

He leans over to kiss her softly. "Is this alright?"

She nods. "Will you hold me?" Her question is tentative, and his heart melts.

He chuckles. "Of course."

She finds his hand and tugs at him. He settles carefully beside her, and the mattress springs groan. When he pulls her to him, she works the blankets out of the way so that she can meet the heat of his skin. He hisses when her cold feet land on his calves.

"Sorry," she whispers. They're nose-to-nose on his pillow, and she pulls his hand up, placing his palm against her cheek.

"I'll bear it gladly," he says, and she kisses him soundly in the candlelight.

His ears buzz. His blood hums. He's vaguely aware that he's rolled her under him, but she doesn't seem to mind in the least. She gives a satisfied huff, squeezing his shoulders, and he leans into her, testing how much of his weight she can comfortably manage. She seems more content the harder he's pressed against her.

His lips trail along her neck, down to the valley between her breasts. The taste of her skin is salty and wonderful on his tongue. Slowly, he draws his mouth across her rosy, peaked nipples as she gasps beneath him. She is completely at his mercy now, but he doesn't feel powerful. Instead, he feels the full weight of her complete trust in him. He's awed by her, how she could choose him, how not a flicker of doubt or worry crosses her face when they're together this way, even as he spreads her legs and kneels carefully between them.

He smooths his hands across the flat of her belly, and her eyelids flutter with pleasure. He wants to make her feel the breadth and substance of his love, to have her come apart beneath him, to send her back to Downton so satisfied that his touch is the only thing she thinks of deep in the night.

He bends to take a nipple between his lips once more. She brushes the hair from his forehead, and their eyes meet and hold as he suckles her. Her lips part in a silent cry as he grazes the tender flesh with his teeth, and she starts to writhe slowly beneath him as he moves to the other side. He knows just what she likes now, and he takes his time, teasing her until she pulls a stray pillow over her face and moans into it. He bats the pillow out of the way and grins at her breathless anticipation as his tongue dips into her navel.

He hooks his hands under her knees and tugs her legs up around him before easing down the mattress. He kisses the soft skin at insides of her thighs, dragging his nose across the tender flesh. He nips low on her belly, moving further still, and his fingers part the glistening folds at the vee of her thighs.

She clamps one hand over her mouth as he moves to taste her, and then there's nothing but the sweet tang of her on his lips, the pleasing rasp of his stubble against the insides of her thighs, and her fingers twisting his hair. He groans against her, burying his face between her legs, and she makes little strangled noises, trying her best not to cry out. Soon, she's moving in rhythm with him, panting with her effort to keep quiet until her legs shake and she shatters around him, her eyes fierce and beautiful.

He crawls up her limp body and nuzzles her neck, settling beside her. She gives him an utterly sated smile, and when he kisses her, she gasps as she tastes her own raw flavor on his lips.

Now his little room crackles with warmth. She bites his shoulder in appreciation, and he sighs, knowing she must leave him soon. Outside the evening is coming on fast, and she still has to put up her hair and restore some semblance of order to her appearance. He can't very well send her home like this. He smiles at the thought, reluctantly rising and tugging her from his bed.

They wait for her bus together, huddled under his umbrella until the last moment. She squeezes his hand and turns to face him for just a moment. Unshed tears shine in his eyes, and he tells her he loves her. She looks overwhelmingly guilty for having to leave him, so he squeezes her hand in turn and nods toward the bus.

"It's only two weeks," she says tenderly, and he nods again.

"I shall count the days." He kisses the back of her hand before seeing her on the way, and he stands watching until the bus fades into the distance. In the night, he'll turn his face into his pillow as her scent surrounds him, and he'll be too aroused to sleep.

* * *

* The quote at the beginning of the chapter is from _The Indian Summer_ by John Howard Bryant.__

__* gelana78 and terriejane need endless thanks for making this chapter so much better than it originally was. They both manage my anxious texts with grace and patience.__

__* Beta for this series has been provided by terriejane, gelana78, and downtonluvr.__

* All of my DA-era fic is related. Find the timeline at lynnsaundersfanfic dot tumblr dot com backslash banna. Per a request, I've made a masterlist of references to books and music in MoJ,and it's available through this link as well.


	18. Bold

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 18: Bold

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken; it is the star to every wand'ring bark, whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. - William Shakespeare_

**December 1917**

Ethel is sitting cross-legged on Anna's bed. It's Christmas Eve, and snow falls steadily outside the window. "You seem happy." She leans back, resting on her palms. "And you're always running off somewhere these days."

Though Ethel is a bit younger, they both stand at the same precipice in age - the great divide between matrimony and a life in service. Rarely do those two eventualities meet. Ethel is a newfound friend, and Anna appreciates the sense of camaraderie that has developed between them of late, but she's not going to confide in her, especially about this.

Anna removes her cap and adjusts her hair in the mirror without meeting the other maid's eyes. "Am I?"

"Yes." Ethel grins. "You've got some chap we don't know about."

Anna scoffs. "Does that seem likely?"

"I won't tell the others." Ethel gives a knowing smile. "It's good you've found someone after that whole business with Mr. Bates."

Anna can't help but laugh at that. "It is, is it?"

"Come on, then. Just one hint? I've told you about Major Bryant."

"Yes, you certainly have." Anna wonders if Ethel is being cautious enough. There's something ominous about Bryant that she just can't put her finger on, and she worries for Ethel. The girl is so headstrong, though, and so sure of herself. Anna doubts anything she'll say will make a difference.

Ethel gives an exaggerated sigh. "Well, since your lips are sealed, I'm off."

"You're not coming to the party then?"

Ethel smiles. "No, not exactly."

Anna is painfully aware that she's in no position to give a lecture. She's done more than her fair share of running off to secret amorous meetings, but still… "Ethel, about the Major-"

Ethel cuts her off, rolling her eyes good-naturedly, but with a hint of exasperation. "Don't worry."

"Just please see that you're careful."

Ethel groans and lets the door fall shut behind her. Only then does Anna remove his latest letter from its hiding place in the pages of her book. She rereads the simple, heartfelt lines even though she can already recite them from memory. He has included a bit of mistletoe, and she brings it out, twirling it in her fingers before tucking it into her pocket. She takes one last look in the mirror, noting that she is indeed happy. She smiles and ventures downstairs to join in the merriment.

The servants' hall is bustling with energy, though not nearly so boisterous as in previous years. The war has taken its toll, especially where joy is usually found. Someone has spiked the cocoa, and Anna stands tucked into the corner, sipping it slowly, reminiscing. She can picture it as if it were yesterday - the hall overflowing with activity, William moving through the door with an overburdened tray, Mr. Bates pushing close, her hands on his strong forearms, the brush of his lips against her ear as he whispered to her. And, later, the way she fit so perfectly in his embrace as he hugged her tightly and tiny snowflakes fluttered all around. They have come so far since then.

They've not seen each other in weeks, not since they were caught out in the rain together. She smiles when she thinks of it, pressing her fingers to her lips. Finally she's gotten a satisfactory taste of just how snugly their bodies mold to one another. The curve of her back fits perfectly against his chest. She can only imagine how well they'll eventually move together. She feels free to think of it now.

Maybe it's the whiskey, but she considers the mistletoe in her pocket and experiences a sudden longing to set it free. Might the simple leaves and berries spark for someone else what was ignited between them so many Christmases ago? She gives the little sprig to Branson, and he tacks it to the wooden beam above the servants' hall doorway. Later, Mrs. Hughes bustles through and almost collides with Mr. Carson as he attempts to ascertain which reveler slipped in with the spirits. Murmurs turn to goading cheers as the partygoers realize just who is standing inadvertently beneath the mistletoe. Mrs. Hughes blushes and slips past, shaking her head while the crowd boos, and Mr. Carson stands shell-shocked and still.

The housekeeper pauses in the hall. "Oh, Anna, a letter came late for you. The postman missed it on his first run and brought it back by. I've put it on your bed. I'd forgotten to tell you earlier, I'm afraid."

Her heart leaps. Bless him, Mr. Bates has sent her another, proper Christmas letter. She steals away to her room, hurrying down the hall, but when she sees the envelope outlined against the cream of her blankets, her face falls. She feels frozen in place, and a hot flush of anger wells up within her.

The envelope has been postmarked in Ireland and addressed in a gaudy hand, flamboyant curls against the distinctive blue stationery that Anna immediately recognizes as his mother's. She already knows what she'll find inside, but she can't stop herself from tearing open the seal. The letter is signed 'Mrs. John Bates.'

* * *

The weeks after Christmas rush by in a flurry of activity, and the next time she's able to see him, it's properly midwinter, the day cold and grey. They're back to meeting in public spaces now that the weather is poor, and this time they carve out a stolen hour together at a small tea room in Ripon. She'd agreed to the place without a second thought, but now that they're here, she can tell he's worried about the nearness to Downton. She doesn't mind. After all, they can't exactly make a habit of sneaking her into his room above the pub in Kirkbymoorside. Pity, that.

She places the letter neatly on the tabletop and looks away. He blinks at it for a moment before giving a resigned sigh and reaching for the envelope. Snippets of the venomous lines flash through her mind as he skims the page. She'd read it once, and she was immediately sorry. The letter rambled, the sentences thrown together with haste, obviously a rash decision in the heat of the moment, but the hateful words hit home nonetheless.

_You've forced him to cut me off. You will not beat me. You'll never know my husband like I do. Slut. Because of you, I have nothing left. He will use you and throw you away just as he did me._

And all on his mother's stationery. What else has Vera stolen from him, simply for the purpose of inflicting pain later?

He looks heartsick and weary. "Anna, I'm so sorry."

She frowns, stirring milk into her tea, letting the spoon clink sharply into the saucer. "Did you force her out of your mother's house?"

He sighs. "In a way, I suppose. I'm sure she's painting it in that light. I imagine she's spent everything I left her with, and she has had to find work."

Anna nods and looks down at her lap.

He chuckles bitterly. "Vera has always felt that working is beneath her." Anna is having trouble meeting his eyes, and he takes her hand. "She wanted so badly to hurt you that she didn't think about what she was doing. We know where she is now, and we can move forward."

Anna had burned with anger initially, but now she feels only exhausted and worn down, tired of it all. She simply wants this ordeal to be over. She'd told herself she wouldn't let the barbed words get to her, but hot tears threaten even so. He holds both of her hands in his, gently circling his thumb across the fingers of her left hand, and she feels acutely aware for the first time that no wedding ring shines there, that it might never happen for them. Suddenly something she'd told herself was just a silly technicality now somehow seems overwhelmingly important in the light of day.

She can't quite bear the way he's looking at her. A half hour from now, she'll be headed back to Downton, away from him once more. She desperately wants to believe that there's a long-term plan, but she knows better. They've been chasing the specter of his divorce for years. How much longer will they have to wait?

He shouldn't comfort her here, but he does anyway. He moves nearer, reaching out to touch her face. She leans into his hand and closes her eyes for just a moment even though it's not the best idea, and she thinks of the last time they were together, alone in his room as wind-blown rain spattered against the window. He'd whispered to her in the candlelight between kisses, still tasting of the pleasure he'd given her. No one has ever said such things to her. No one has ever meant more.

She's vaguely aware that they're making a bit of a scene. The lady at the table nearest them has been eavesdropping for some time, and Mr. Bates gives the woman a solid glare before turning back to Anna. He can be so gruff with others, but he's only ever handled her gently.

"We'd better separate, or people will start to talk," she says quietly.

"And what tales will they tell? The heart-wrenching story of a tired old bartender pining after a beautiful housemaid from a faraway land?" His eyes are warm, and he releases her dutifully.

"It might become a bestseller," she says, and their easy laughter returns. Just like that, the tension between them falls away. He refreshes her cup, and they sit quietly together for a while, watching the world go by beyond the window.

"Actually, someone recognized me the other day," he says seriously. "I fear it's only a matter of time before word of it gets back to Downton."

"You have every right to be here, Mr. Bates. And I have every right to see you." Truly, she's growing tired of sneaking around.

He sighs roughly. "But I fear it might be obvious where you've been disappearing to these past few months, and I don't want to compromise your position."

She gives him a sly smile. "Lady Mary has known all along. I'm not worried."

"We can't go on like this forever, though. I can't bear it, and you deserve so much more." He looks absolutely devastated that he can't hold her properly here, that there's no opportunity today for them to be alone. He glances at his watch and frowns, tapping her hand gently. She finishes her tea, reluctantly moving to go. He helps her on with her coat in the entryway, and they step out into the stark late January afternoon together.

"It looks like snow," she says. He nods beside her. She can tell he's wrestling with what to say, and she waits patiently, her breath puffing in the icy air. She thinks of her silvery angel dust streaked beneath his collar, shimmering in the moonlight, and she smiles softly as she loops her fingers through his offered arm. He covers her hand with his.

"Vera doesn't want me. What she wants is money, and she thinks I can keep her comfortable." He huffs out a held breath. "She has no choice in the matter now, and I'll give her what she wants as long as she goes peacefully."

He seems so certain of his plan, but Anna is wary and unsure. He's said almost exactly these words to her before, and she doesn't see their situation changing anytime soon. "She'll go after your mother's house, you know. Only to hurt you." She pauses, gathering her courage. "What if she demands more than you're willing to give?" Her voice is small, and the question hangs in the air between them for a moment.

He smiles then and pulls her close, boldly kissing her on the lips right there on the street. She suspects they're attracting more than a few whispers and stares from the tea room patrons, positioned as they are directly in front of the shop's large picture window, but she doesn't care.

When he answers, he presses the words against her ear, and she feels warm despite the chill outside. "Anna, there's nothing I wouldn't give to be with you."

* * *

* The quote at the beginning of the chapter is from Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare.  
* Thanks as always to terriejane, gelana78, and downtonluvr for beta!  
* I have created a timeline that incorporates the events of Mystery of Joy into the canon timeline from the show. There is also a Masterlist of Works Referenced in Mystery of Joy. All of my DA era fic exists in roughly the same universe. All are posted to my tumblr at lynnsaundersfanfic dot tumblr dot com.


	19. Threshold

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 19: Threshold

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore alone upon the threshold of my door of individual life, I shall command the uses of my soul, nor lift my hand serenely in the sunshine as before, without the sense of that which I forbore - thy touch upon the palm. - Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

**February 1918**

The day is misty, bleak and grey. She's gloomy as the weather until the bells on pub the door jangle her arrival. She has secured the day away from Downton, and he works only through the early afternoon. Young Will greets her warmly and brings her a cider as she waits at the window table. She settles in, removing her coat and gloves. She's no longer a stranger to the staff here, but she isn't well-known to them either. Mr. Bates doesn't say much to anyone about anything, but she's sure they understand what he is to her. It's not hard to guess. They probably wonder why he's wasting time, living here alone.

Last week's valentine arrived unsigned, just as it did the first time. Just as it will every year hereafter, though she can't know that now. At least she'd had enough sense to wait to open it in private. _What I do and what I dream include thee, as the wine must taste of its own grapes. _She'd smiled to herself as she imagined him taking pen and paper in hand, carving the words onto the page with bold strokes, knowing that she'd thumb through the love-worn pages of her book to reread the passage.

It might be a cold, dreary February day now, but in just a few weeks' time everything will be transformed. She thinks of how much she missed him last year, when she'd had to face the coming spring alone. In years past, the season of rebirth has settled cumbersomely upon her, making her somewhat irritable with its buzzing insects, the frenetic bursts of color and blossoms reminding her of the things her carefully restrained life was missing. Now, she sees the spring as an opportunity. There's an invigorating sense of urgency where none existed before. With this new physicality unfolding between them, she no longer has to wonder if they might become frenzied and warm, if they might burst forth just like the season. It feels inevitable.

She has always admired him in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and in this setting she's afforded ample opportunity to appreciate them. She watches as he works, clearing glasses, wiping down the tables. To her, he's dashing, tall and thickly built, and his eyes smile when they meet hers across the room. She worries about him, too. She feels he must get lonely here and frets over his inability to use a cane in this job. When he finally joins her, he looks relieved and happy, but there is a tiredness underneath. She asks if he's been sleeping alright, wonders to herself if he's been sleeping at all.

His face is mischievous as he mumbles something about distracting dreams, trailing his thumb gently across the back of her hand. Oh. Her cheeks color, and their eyes hold across the little bar table as a gentle rain begins to fall beyond the window. She looks down, smiling, and his grip tightens on his coffee cup. Here they are once again, spending their precious hours together with a wooden tabletop planted firmly between them. And she'd come in the front door today. What she wouldn't give to be caught out in the weather with him again. His eyes twinkle. He feels the same.

She knows he can see the idea blooming; he can read it on her face, and his expression oscillates from desire to panic and back again in the time it takes to pull on her gloves. She moves to stand, and he helps her into her coat and escorts her to the door, where they are tucked away for just a moment, hidden by the frosted glass. He blinks at her in the muted light of the entryway.

"Anna..."

She knows what he's thinking - how many times can they possibly get away with this? She silently pleads with him to take her spontaneity in stride. Just once more, she foolishly promises herself. She craves the press of his skin against hers, the sensations he coaxes from her behind closed doors. She knows, deep down, he can deny her nothing. Finally, he sighs and gives a subtle nod. "Ten minutes," she says before squeezing his hand and stepping outside. The pub's side door stands slightly ajar. No one is out and about today; no one will see her. She slips into the quiet chill of the back hall, and she can hear him diverting young Will as she disappears upstairs.

"...didn't stay long today?"

"She had other business about, and I need a rest. We'll dine late..."

She holds her discarded heels in one hand as she creeps to his door and turns the knob. His room smells of shoe polish, an undercurrent of smoke from the fire, and the rain outside. It appears both lived in and tidy. His books (Browning, Yeats, Spenser) are stacked on the bedside table, beneath the brass candle holder that so unceremoniously announced their activities last time. She smiles, thinking of it. _North of Boston_ is page-down and open against his pillow. A single unlaundered dress shirt is laid out neatly on the bed. He wasn't expecting company. She runs her fingers over the cotton, tracing the buttons with the backs of her fingernails. The window is open a crack, and water drips steadily onto the sill. She's closing it carefully when he slips into the room.

As soon as the door opens, he hooks his cane over the knob and begins working at his cufflinks. They clink into a dish on the dresser, and he's upon her by the time the latch clicks into place. His eyes haven't left hers. He seems slightly unhinged by her presence here in the midst of the rain outside, she thinks as his palms run under the neckline of her blouse, spreading flat across her collarbones. He backs her against the window ledge, and she starts as chilled rainwater seeps through at her back. Concerned, he searches her face for the problem. She turns so that he can see, and he murmurs sympathetically as his fingers trace the crescent-shaped outline between her shoulder blades, evidence of the rain beyond the glass. She's wondered in the past why it always seems to storm for them, and now she thinks she might be able to tolerate the rough seas if moments like this are the result. His mouth is hot against the delicate skin behind her ear as she unbuttons and unhooks, letting her clothing fall away slowly with the comforting bulk of him pressing into her back.

She'd asked him once, as he stood waiting to put her aboard the bus home, why he didn't come back to Downton, even for a visit. He'd mentioned his bad parting with Robert, his desire to settle things with Vera. He'd even alluded to securing a wedding date first. She'd sighed and smiled at him, thinking how difficult it would all be, how long it would take. Now, he presses his lips to the curve of her neck as she sheds her corset, and it occurs to her that if he was home, they couldn't be together quite like this. She'd see him every day, but they'd be back to pretending that sparks don't fly between them. They'd be relegated to quick meetings in the courtyard or gardens, out of doors in the dark. They'd dare not speak of the attic.

He turns her, and they rest together for a moment, the thin straps of her chemise slipping down her shoulders as she wraps her arms around his waist. Their movements draw out, purposefully slowing so that this can be savored. She knows from previous experience that the memories of this day might have to last them a while.

She reaches up to loosen his tie and smiles at the familiarity of it. She never could've imagined it would become a habit. She pops the stud at his collar successfully this time, and he raises his eyebrows slightly as she pulls his waistcoat buttons with a look of frank satisfaction. Easing him out of his clothes is quickly becoming one of her favorite things.

His fingertips play along the neckline of her chemise in the most distracting way as she unbuttons his shirt. He's edging closer, trying to capture her lips in another kiss, until he finally takes her hips firmly in his hands and pins her carefully against the wall. Her eyes spark and flare for him, and she allows him to kiss her thoroughly as he shrugs out of his braces. She pulls his shirt from his trousers, and it flutters to the floor.

They've never really undressed each other before, not painstakingly this way, but nothing between them is awkward. They know the boundaries well, and she feels both free to drift in the pleasure he brings her and confident in the way she touches him in turn. The combination is intoxicating. When she moves to the bed, he steps out of his shoes. She relocates his book and shirt to the dresser, lest they send anything tumbling to the floor, then returns to sit on the edge of the bed. He sets his jaw in a hard line, running his hands across his face with a soft groan as she carefully rolls down her stockings.

She offers her hand, and he takes it, settling beside her. When she moves to kiss him again, he draws her into his lap with his feet planted firmly on the floor, and his fingers splay across her bare thighs. She's kissing him with abandon now, sighing into his mouth as his hands wander higher, across the curve of her buttocks through the thin fabric of her knickers, fingerprinting the small of her back. She pulls away slightly so that she can work at his undershirt buttons. His fingertips dip just under the waistband of her bloomers, and she giggles in his arms. She tugs his undershirt over his head and drops it at the bedside. He takes the opportunity to drag his mouth across the point of her shoulder, moving over her breastbone. She gasps and arches her back as he pulls her chemise lower, exposing the swell of her breasts. She's so eager to feel his lips on the budded points of her nipples that her knee slips off the edge of the bed when she rises toward him, and she almost falls. He catches her, his shoulders heaving with silent laughter. She tries to give him a disapproving look, but fails utterly. He holds her fast against him as he eases back into the pillows.

"We wouldn't want to break anything," he whispers.

She loves that she can laugh with him when they're together this way, that they maintain their easy banter. They don't become another version of themselves.

He pulls her close with a satisfied growl and buries his face between her breasts. She pushes back long enough to help him tug her chemise off over her head, and then his lips latch onto her nipple. How can anything feel so good? She leans into him and threads her fingers through his hair as he hums against her, stroking her sides, and she remembers their last time together, how selfless he was with her. Suddenly, she wants nothing more than to make him feel so loved.

She wriggles just out of the reach of his seductive mouth, and he smiles up at her as her fingers map his strong arms, kneading the bulk of his shoulders, gliding along his chest and down to the buttons on his trousers. She releases them one by one, and her eyes don't leave his. When she gently frees him and takes him in hand, his lips part slightly. She grins as she bends to take him into her mouth, and he sighs, reaching out to her. He strokes her face as she loves him, tips his head back as she gradually takes him deeper, and desperately tries to warn her as he nears his end. She steadfastly ignores his attempts to get her attention, and his eyes go dark when he realizes what she intends to do. Oh, how she loves to shock him. He groans softly, gripping the bedsheets. He'll tell her later that it's something he's never fully experienced before, the comforting thrum of not having to hold back, the heightened release that comes with relinquishing control.

After, he curls against her and nuzzles her breasts as she holds him tight. He's still trying to catch his breath, but his hands don't stop moving against her, roaming along her bare back. Her skin pricks in the chill of his room, and she untangles herself from him long enough to retrieve his undershirt. It's soft and warm and smells of him. She slips it on and rolls the sleeves before settling back into bed. He makes a strangled noise at the sight of her in his clothing. She knows the image will never leave him. The vee of the neckline falls at the furrow between her breasts, and he noses the fabric to the side so that he can kiss her there.

Their lips meet gently, and she is relaxed and happy. The din of evening conversation at the bar below signals that they don't have much time left. He rolls her anyway, tucking her beneath him and settling her back against the pillows. He works his way down her body, tugging her knickers to the side. The first hot brush of his mouth makes her gasp, and he doesn't stop until she's quaking beneath him, sighing into his pillow. She pulls at him, but he shakes his head. His hands spread low on her belly, soothing her, and when she begins to settle, he dips his head to taste her again. Her second release is rough and dark, leaving her breath ragged, and he draws her near, pressing words of love against her ear.

* * *

The day he comes home to Downton, she's been hurrying about, getting Lady Mary's blouse ready for the coming concert. The infernal ruffles won't press out satisfactorily, partly because she's distracted by the question of his return. Will it be tonight? Will he come back at all? They haven't seriously discussed this possibility, and she's not sure what he'll do. She irons the top three times before she's satisfied, which puts her behind on tonight's dinner dress. She sets about replacing a button with a sigh.

Just the week before, they'd spent the afternoon in his bed. As they crept down the back hall together, she'd nearly collided with Will at the staff entrance. He'd touched the brim of his hat and bid her good night with a decidedly startled expression. Beside her, Mr. Bates looked less scandalized than she'd expected. He looked… well, rather proud of himself. "Will might suspect," he'd said, "but he won't give us away."

When she'd spoken of Mr. Bates earlier in the day, she worried for just a moment that the whole truth of the matter might come to light. Anna had fought to keep her expression carefully calm. Even if Will let their secret slip, she'd reasoned, surely it would take much longer than this to reach Downton. She had squared her shoulders and met Mrs. Hughes' eyes somewhat warily. But if the housekeeper had suspicions, she thankfully hadn't pursued them.

Anna is just finishing her last stitch when she hears the unmistakable click of his cane, the warm rumble of his voice in the hall. She beams at him, and he simply says hello. She can't help but touch him.

The next evening, he's laying a new seam into the side of His Lordship's best hunting jacket as she reads quietly beside him. The servants' hall smells of rising bread and coffee. She's the summit of all joy for him. She still can't quite believe he's here. So much has changed, yet so much remains the same. They're alone for the moment.

"I hope I've done the right thing for us," he says. His eyes remain focused on his sewing. "I had to give an answer straight away."

He looks so uncertain, and she reaches over to squeeze his shoulder. "Of course I want you here with me. Silly beggar."

He sighs, and she knows what he's thinking.

"It will be wonderful to see you every day." She smiles and lowers her voice. "We will have to make some sacrifices for a while, but…"

He nods. "That's not all we are together."

"Precisely."

The last two fingers of her right hand draw across his knee under the table, and he coughs, missing a stitch. He turns to stare at her, amused, letting his eyes wander from her face to her hands and back again before returning to his work with a smirk.

Later, she'll bring him tea, and they will sit up together for a while, spending a quiet evening reading before the fire. It's a touch too cold outside to walk the gardens at night, but the relative privacy of the little stone bench down by the willow tree will be theirs again soon enough. Spring is near, and this time it's full of possibilities.

* * *

* Angel-Princess-Anna made me aware of a deleted scene from S2E3 that is alluded to in this story. WTH they deleted this, I'll never know. _45 EXT. THE RED LION. KIRKBYMOORSIDE. DAY. /Bates and Anna are waiting by the bus stop./ ANNA: Come back to Downton. They'd love to see you and the new valet's an odd cove. I doubt he'll stay. BATES: His Lordship won't have me back. We parted on bad terms. And I don't want to see the others until it's all resolved. Then I can greet them with an invitation to our wedding. /He kisses her hand as a pledge, and helps her aboard the bus./ - pg. 173-174_

* Anna's valentine quotes _Sonnets from the Portuguese, VI: Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore alone upon the threshold of my door of individual life, I shall command the uses of my soul, nor lift my hand serenely in the sunshine as before, without the sense of that which I forebore- Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine with pulses that beat double. What I do and what I dream include thee, as the wine must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue God for myself, He hears that name of thine, and sees within my eyes the tears of two. _

* _North of Boston_, Robert Frost's second collection of poems, was published first in England, where he lived at the time, in 1914. It was his first big success, and afterward the same company re-published his first volume of poetry. If you only know Frost from highschool or college lit class, I strongly recommend you revisit him. His poetry is rich and quite dark at times, and something I imagine Bates reading with interest.

* For a complete list of literary and musical works referenced in MoJ, go to  post/117664022751/masterlist-of-works-referenced-in-mystery-of-joy.

* Beta for this series is provided by these wonderful ladies: terriejane, gelana78, and downtonluvr.

* This chapter is for annambates, who requested a scene in which Anna and Bates discuss their relationship after the "summit of all joy" moment after the amateur concert in S2E4 and hoped I could connect this chapter back to the tradition of unsigned valentines.


	20. Open Doors

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 20: Open Doors

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_For whatsoever from one place doth fall, is with the tide unto another brought: For there is nothing lost that may be found, if sought. - Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene_

**April 1918**

The letters were hidden away in Vera's bag and stashed in the top of his mother's closet. He found them more than a year ago, on a Wednesday. A half-dozen envelopes bound neatly together with twine had become his ticket out. The contents left no question as to the sort of relationship the writer shared with Vera. Beautiful, yearning words marked the pages, the descriptions scandalously detailed, and even a rough pencil sketch was included: Vera asleep in a tousled bed, the curve of her hip peeking beneath the sheets. The sender was in love, and Bates wondered idly whether this bloke realized just what he'd become involved in, just what sort of person he was dealing with. Then again, Vera could be so sweet when things were going her way. John wasn't angry. No, the only emotion he had consistently felt since leaving Downton was a numb sort of acceptance of it all. Until that moment, he'd lost all hope.

Now, he sits across from Vera in an overly-warm London courtroom, and she fixes him with a calculating stare. The law required her ex-lover be named as co-respondent, but so far he hasn't shown up. Bates blinks calmly as his lawyer sets out the case, professional and thorough. He has paid a great deal to both his solicitor and, privately, to Vera, giving up nearly all of his inheritance and parting with his mother's home so that he might experience this moment. Vera had demanded the house with a self-satisfied smirk, though her triumphant air diminished somewhat when he hadn't so much as batted an eye at the request.

The rest of his life hinges on the judge's next words. He listens, almost in disbelief, as the ruling is announced in his favor. He's one step closer to freedom. Only six more months of careful waiting, then Anna can be his wife. He imagines their wedding on a beautiful morning in late autumn, walking hand-in-hand with her beneath a brilliant blue sky, sunlight slanting through red leaves and catching in her golden hair, taking her home to their cottage, making love to her in their own bed in the middle of the crisp fall afternoon.

Vera stands coolly, watching as the judge retires to his chambers before cutting her eyes at John. She approaches, and his stomach churns. She smells of cigarette smoke and whiskey. Slowly, she allows her face to relax into a smile that clashes sharply with her tone. "What do I care if we divorce? Miss Smith will have got over you by now, you know. They won't have you back at Downton."

He resists the urge to snap out a harsh reply. Instead, he smiles softly as he thinks of Anna making eyes at him over her teacup in the servants' hall. Vera is quite mistaken, about a great number of things in fact, but he's happy to let her feel satisfied with herself while she can. What she doesn't know won't hurt her. He steps out of the courthouse, shakes his lawyer's hand, and catches the next train home to Anna.

He arrives back at Downton just before the dressing gong, and he tugs her into the hallway by the servants' stairs. He feels moved to pull her close and kiss her right here, but thankfully Lady Mary's evening gown is folded over Anna's arm, and she holds it carefully between them. She's worried.

"The judge has ruled in my favor," he whispers, beaming at her.

Anna gives a surprised little smile. "We won?" she asks tentatively, as if she can't quite believe it.

"Yes, we won." He's so giddy that he laughs the words. "And we must celebrate."

Her smile in that moment is clearly borne of pure joy, and it's something that he will never forget.

* * *

The very next evening, he takes her to dinner. The restaurant is dark and warm, and they're tucked into a quiet corner table. She's wearing her evening dress, the fabric painted a deep blue in the soft candlelight, and she keeps catching him staring, but she doesn't mind in the least. The look in his eyes takes her back to the soaring notes of Beethoven, the brush of his fingers against the back of her arm. The last time she wore this dress, she'd slept through the night in his embrace.

She's never had food so fine. The rich cream sauce is the best she's ever tasted, and she eats slowly, savoring every bite. She enjoys two glasses of wine, and by the time they're walking arm-in-arm through the darkened streets, she feels a pleasant buzz.

He looks down at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I do believe you're a bit tipsy, Miss Smith."

"That I am." She clutches his arm and smiles. "And not necessarily from the wine."

They wait for the bus in companionable silence. It's become a habit of theirs, but this time she won't have to leave him. This time, they're going home together. He takes the seat beside her and holds her hand all the way back to Downton. Once there, they walk beneath a cloud-specked, starry sky, the Abbey glowing warm, silent and still in the distance. He steers them away from the path to the main house and out across the far-sweeping estate grounds. She leans into him as they stroll through the immense gardens, past the lonely little lake that skirts the edge of the property. The night is breezy, and Anna closes her eyes for a moment, breathing in the earthy sweetness of the evening air.

She sighs contentedly. "You know what I like?"

He shakes his head and squeezes her hand. "What, Love?"

She turns to him, her fingers sliding under the edges of his suit jacket, fully aware that she's gazing up at him. "The way we walk in step together."

It must be just about the last thing he expected her to say, and his laugh rumbles from deep within his chest. It's true, though; without his bum leg, she'd struggle to keep up with his long strides.

He stares off into the night as fog rises from the pond nearby. "You know, I bought a limp corrector once."

She rolls her eyes for his benefit. "Mr. Bates…"

"No, it's true. Mrs. Hughes made me throw it into the lake."

"She didn't ever!"

He smiles down at her. "She did."

She searches his face and finds that he's serious. "You don't need fixing," she says firmly. Her arms slip beneath his coat, encircling his waist, and he sighs into her hair as the chorus of spring frogs starts up around them. She pulls back slightly so that she can see his eyes. "I think the wounds you endured, the pain you've been through… it's fit you perfectly to me."

He looks down at her in wonder. "What did I ever do to deserve you?"

She only smiles and takes his offered arm, eyeing him curiously as they stroll past the stone bench beneath the willow tree. "Where are we going?"

He shrugs, feigning innocence, and checks the time. She secretly loves watching him fiddle with his waistcoat pocket.

"I thought we might explore the south gardens a bit."

"Oh yes?"

There's only one structure back here, and thinking of it thrills her endlessly. She's never had the pleasure of seeing it decked out in full spring color. An old tree root twists across the stepping stone pathway, and he navigates it carefully, moving in close to the glass-front door and running his fingers along the top of the frame.

"As far as I know, we're still locked out, Mr. Bates."

He turns back to her then, taking her hand in his and pressing a small key into her palm. It slips easily into the lock on the conservatory door, the tumbler pins catching and aligning with a click. He ushers her inside, then hangs back, watching from the doorway as she walks the greenhouse rows. She pauses to let her fingers hover over a delicate bloom, and she knows that his eyes have not left her. The pinks and purples of the hothouse flowers are muted in the darkness, but the white blossoms stand out sharply against the foliage. She imagines her angel's robes must've shone in the night, years ago on Christmas Eve.

He takes a step forward, pulling the door closed behind him, and their eyes meet and hold. He extends his hand to her, and she moves to take it, stepping into his embrace. She hugs him tightly, pressing her nose into his chest, breathing in the scent of warm wool and peppermint. She's home.

He nuzzles her, letting his evening stubble rasp against her temple before smoothing her hair gently back into place. They can't let themselves get too disheveled, after all. There can be no unhooking or unfastening, no quickening breath, no love-bruised lips. Not tonight. They'll have to be back soon to put their employers to bed. She'll have to be polished and proper, buttoned neatly into her maid's uniform for the evening. But that's alright; they both know this is an idea they will revisit.

She looks into his eyes, acknowledges the desire shining there, and knows he can read hers as well. His fingertips glide along her collarbone, dipping into the hollow of her throat before moving to trail along her jawline. He blinks slowly, huffing out a breath, and presses his lips to her forehead. Her fingers slide to the back of his neck, dipping just under his collar, and he closes his eyes.

"I've missed the feel of you," he says.

It seems they're always running out of time, but it's been two months since she's had the opportunity to kiss him properly. She smiles and closes the space between them in the dark.

* * *

* For annambates, who asked for a scene in which Bates tells Anna about the limp corrector, and for giginutshell, who wondered about Bates taking Anna out to dine before they were married (as referenced in Season 4).

* Beta for this series has been provided by terriejane, gelana78, and downtonluvr. giginutshell joined in as well, beginning with this chapter. All of these ladies spend their precious free time talking plot with me, and I really appreciate it.

* Timeline Note: This chapter takes place in April 1918. For reference, Bates returned to Downton in February (S2,E4), so he's been home for two months. The events of S2, E5 (praying in church) will not occur until July/August 1918. For a full timeline of Mystery of Joy, go to: post/119791583851/mystery-of-joy-timeline

* Historical Notes: In order to get the decree nisi, Bates and Vera would've had to go to court in London. Bates would've had to show proof of Vera's adultery and list her lover by name, per the Divorce Act of 1857. After the decree nisi was granted for each case, a six month waiting period went into effect, during which time the decree might be withdrawn if any sort of wrongdoing was proven against the spouse who sought the divorce. At that time, simply agreeing to amicably divorce was not a legal reality. And in order to get a divorce, only one party could be guilty of wrongdoing. If both were guilty of any sort of shenanigans, they were forced to stay married (what a horrible plan). At the end of the six month period, the decree absolute would be granted, and the individuals would be free to remarry. (The six month timeline for the divorce is historically accurate, but fitting this with the canon we've been given is proving quite difficult. Someone *cough JF cough* was a naughty boy and didn't do his research- you'll see what I mean in the next chapter. Of course, with my perfectionistic tendencies, I can't just pick one or the other.)


	21. Hope

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 21: Hope

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_The eternal stars shine out again, so soon as it is dark enough. - Thomas Carlyle_

**July 1918**

"I've had a letter from Will," he whispers. She's balancing an empty serving tray, and he moves to the side so that she can join him on the first landing of the servants' stairway.

"And how are things at the pub?" Her smile fades when she sees the worry in his eyes.

He takes a step closer. "Vera has been about in Kirkbymoorside, asking where I've gone."

Anna grips the tray, her eyebrows furrowing. "And you think she's trying to make trouble for us." It's not a question.

Daisy appears at the foot of the stairwell. "Anna, can you take the desserts now?"

"Of course." Anna smiles down at the kitchen maid, then turns back to meet his eyes sympathetically for a moment before bustling off. As he ascends the steps, he catches the distinct odor of cigarettes on the landing above.

In the evening, he sits with Anna in the courtyard after the servants' supper. His Lordship has retired early, but Lady Mary hasn't yet rung to be readied for bed. A summer house party is on, and it's expected to go late into the evening. They won't be sneaking off together anytime soon. She watches the night sky as he watches her. The stars' brightness and impossible numbers are muted by the light from the Abbey, and he longs to take her back to the meadow for a proper look.

A gentle breeze stirs the loose hair at her temples. "I've the feeling Miss O'Brien was eavesdropping earlier," she says. Her eyes don't leave the heavens.

He sighs. "I thought I smelled smoke in the stairwell." He moves a touch closer, and Anna takes his hand. "Is she sticking nearer than she used to, or have I just got out of the habit of dodging her?"

She smiles at him then. "Both." Slowly, her expression shifts to one of uncertainty, and she turns her face back to the sky. "What do you think Vera wants with you now?"

"Maybe she wants to make sure I'm not hiding anything valuable." He shrugs. "If only there was something else I could give."

She hums her agreement. "What will you do if she finds you?"

He doesn't know. "We'll have to take that as it happens, I suppose." He strokes her cheek gently, and she meets his eyes once more. "But I promise I'll not leave you again."

She simply nods, patting his arm before rising and pulling him to his feet. "Come along, Mr. Bates. We've work to do." He takes her hand as they move in through the door and continues to hold it tight in his until the wisps of conversation from the servants' hall become distinct. He presses her fingers to his lips before they part.

* * *

A week later, he's awakened deep in the night by the opening and closing of doors in the hall. The sonorous notes of Mr. Carson's voice carry well, and Bates catches snippets of a conversation that almost certainly involves a telegram and Matthew. It can mean only one thing. He throws back the covers and makes himself presentable as quickly as he can. When he reaches the hall, most of the others are already disappearing downstairs, following closely behind Mr. Carson in a show of support. Anna is waiting where the men's staircase breaks off from the women's, and John is treated to the sight of her in nightclothes, her braid tucked over her shoulder. She falls purposefully in step beside him as they make their way through the house to join the small cluster of servants at the library door. He faces the news rigidly, pushing down the specters of smoke and gunfire that rise up within him. After that, none of them feel much like sleeping. Mrs. Patmore brews tea, and the staff mills about in the servants' hall. He takes his customary place beside her at the table, and they wait for morning together.

In the afternoon, he and Anna walk home hand-in-hand from the church. Days like today remind him just how lucky they are. So many others have lost so much, and yet he's still here beside her. Things aren't perfect, but they're well and safe, and that's more than most people have right now. That's the main reason he hedges when she asks how long they'll have to wait. He doesn't want to tempt fate.

They're scarcely two paces through the servants' entrance when Mrs. Hughes intercepts them in the hall. The housekeeper's demeanor tells him everything he needs to know about what's waiting for them behind the sitting room door. He sighs, resigned to confront Vera alone, but Anna steps steadfastly in front of him and turns the knob before he has a chance to argue. He doesn't want her to be bothered with his baggage, but she won't let him face Vera without her any longer.

Hours ago, he was lamenting their inability to have a church wedding. Now, he stands across from his legal wife with Anna stone-faced at his side, but he doesn't feel as helpless as he did the last time Vera turned up unannounced. Anna stares coldly, her blue eyes flashing, and she doesn't reach for his hand or seek his support. He feels an odd sense of satisfaction that she's able to stand boldly, facing Vera without fear. Anna is not dependent on him; she enhances him. They complete each other, but she's the strong one.

It's worse than he thought, though. Vera doesn't want more money. She desires only their unhappiness. The sour feeling in his stomach bubbles up to his throat, and he swallows hard. Anna looks fierce beside him. He's trying not to fall apart inside. After Vera storms out, he hangs his head, bitter tears welling up and slipping down his cheeks before he has a chance to stop them. Anna moves into his embrace, squeezing him tight, and he leans his forehead against hers with Mrs. Hughes looking on, wide-eyed in the hall.

Two days later, Bates takes his place behind Anna for someone else's wedding ceremony, and he hopes she can feel his solid presence at her back even through the space between them. He thinks of her small hands carefully arranging bridal flowers in Daisy's hair. He thinks of poor William. This is everything the lad has ever wanted, but he'll hold happiness tight in his grasp for only a moment before he drifts on. And, Bates thinks selfishly of his most secret fear, that he and Anna won't have a joyful ending either, that marriage and children and happily ever after might not happen for them after all, after everything. Then again, maybe this country vicar could be persuaded to marry them in only a few months, out of doors under the golden leaves with the sweet smell of fall all around. Everything is so uncertain. The temptation to reach out and touch her is overwhelming, and presently he does so, edging in close behind her and discretely taking her left hand in his.

* * *

Weeks later, they meet far after the rest of the household has gone to bed. It's the end of August now, and September is looming. Nearly a year has passed since their fateful trip to repair his mother's home, and he finds himself longing for fall, just as he did then. Tonight the conservatory is hot and humid, tropical, a jungle in the middle of the English countryside, and they escape to the relative comfort of the midnight air in late summer. He's brought the quilt, and they lie out in the meadow together, watching the stars. She turns to him, pressing her nose into his neck, and he listens as her breathing slowly evens out.

He kisses her temple. "We can't fall asleep here, Love." As the words leave his lips, his eyes drift shut.

"I know," she murmurs sleepily. "But I'm not ready to go back yet."

He smiles sadly. Neither of them wants to go back, only forward. He remembers the relief in her eyes, weeks ago when she'd asked if their garden was rosy once more. He'd not had the heart to tell her the whole truth just then. He hasn't heard anything further from Vera or his lawyer, and he's foolishly begun to dream that, just maybe, everything will still end well for them if they simply stay the course. No news is good news, surely?

This year, autumn should bring the news he's hoped for since that August day long ago, when Anna faced him bravely, outlined against the brilliant green of the summer leaves, and looked him in the eye as she told him she loved him. Somewhere deep down, he knows now that Vera will never leave them be. But time has passed without incident, days have turned to weeks, and life has gone back to normal. They spend their days working together and their nights meeting in secret, just as they've done for years.

The points of light above the meadow weave a thick tapestry, an innumerable expanse of heat and energy, and for a moment he recognizes the smallness of their struggles relative to the scope of the heavens. He presses the fingers of his free hand to his temple and sighs.

She hugs him closer. "What's the matter?" His eyes remain fixed on the stars above, and she doesn't wait for his answer. She knows. "If something happens… I'll go away with you."

It's not the first time she's said it, and it certainly won't be the last. His arms tighten around her, and he chuckles into her hair. The idea is more tempting than he cares to admit, and with the story about Pamuk neatly tied up in contract, nothing really binds them to Downton except stubborn loyalty and habit. "Will you, now?"

She finds his hand and laces her fingers through his. "You know I will."

"And where would you like to go, Miss Smith?"

She looks up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Paris?" she asks with a cheeky grin, and they laugh together in the starlight. She's silent for a moment, thinking. "America." Her voice is quiet and calm. She's serious.

He breathes in, waits, then lets the held breath leave him as he nods slowly. "Everything will be alright." His lips seek hers, and he kisses her languidly, letting each touch linger between them, indulging in the dangerous taste of hope.

* * *

* An **anonymous guest reviewer** on FF dot net requested more stargazing, and I was happy to oblige. This series is all about parallels, both to the the show and to other chapters/stories in the overall arc. Y'all don't be shy. Please note that I have no way to reply to your kind reviews unless you log in. :) And please do leave a review if you're so inclined- they're what I live for. I'm also lynnsaundersfanfic at gmail dot com and on tumblr.

* Beta for this series is provided by **terriejane**, **gelana78**, **downtonluvr**, and **giginutshell**. Timeline information and fact-checking is provided by **angel-princess-anna** (though any errors you might note are entirely my own- please contact me if you see one, and I will address it).

* Re the divorce timeline: Bates and Anna would've surely known that after the decree nisi was issued, they'd have a six month waiting period before the decree absolute. That is historically accurate. However, in the church scene, Anna asks "how long," and Bates replies with, "hard to say." Ehhh… what? That bugs me. So I hope that I've resolved that discrepancy satisfactorily while staying within the canon framework. I felt that something (Bates being alerted that Vera is trying to find him) had to happen to put the hint of a question into their minds in order for the church scene to develop the way it did. That also was a convenient way to explain O'Brien's sudden interest in contacting Vera with the news of Bates' location. I feel like the news from Will combined with general possibilities of legal delays and registrar availability makes the "hard to say" line more believable. Hopefully.

* Aside from the scene in which Matthew and William are injured, S2E5 spans three days in July 1918. As **angel-princess-anna** points out on her timeline, the Battle of Amiens actually occurred in August, but the canon point of the date on William's tombstone overrides this error in my book. If you prefer to think of this chapter as set in August and moving into September, that's fine.


	22. Balm

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 22: Balm

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_You were made perfectly to be loved, and surely I have loved you, in the idea of you, my whole life long. - Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

**November 1918**

Anna soothes her grandmother's chamomile salve over his temple, and his eyes drift shut, just as they did for a moment earlier when she forgot herself and moved to touch his face in full view of everyone. In private, he doesn't pull her hand away. Instead, he holds perfectly still as he sits at the greenhouse workbench in his shirtsleeves, patiently allowing her to tend his wound. Close up, the gash is purple and raw. What she initially thought was the nick of a fingernail now looks more like the indention of a high-set ring. Without the balm, it will bruise something awful.

Light from a single borrowed candle is reflected back over and over in the darkened conservatory windows. They've met here only a handful of times since he pressed the key into her palm months ago, but they've dared not lose themselves completely in one another. Until now, the stakes have been too high.

"I've been a fool," he says. "I'd let myself believe she wasn't going to intervene after all." Even though he's put out, he doesn't raise his voice.

She sighs and moves to hang his coat carefully on the iron hook in the corner. She can't think of anything helpful to say.

He presses the fingers of his right hand to the bridge of his nose. "Why wait 'til now, at the end?"

_You know why_, she thinks. He meets her eyes, and she doesn't have to speak the words. Vera is a skilled adversary, always planning her next strike, biding her time to inflict the most pain possible. Anna blames herself. She fears she's remained too passive in this, and it's gotten him hurt. She should've begged him not to go to London, knowing as she did that no good could come of it. You can't really reason with someone who is trying to destroy your life. She knows he would've stayed home. All she had to do was ask.

She can still hear the scrape of broken china underfoot in his mother's kitchen, the clink of the shards as she swept the evidence of his wife's last outburst into the dustpan. This time, obviously having nothing left to throw, Vera had lashed out at him instead. Anna had realized immediately, when her attention focused on his wound and he was reluctant to meet her eyes, that this wasn't the first time.

The only other men Anna has known have been slight in build and in character, predatory and violent. Not like her Mr. Bates, who is large and imposing, but with a gentle touch, ever patient and careful with her. How could anyone dare to strike him? She simmers with quiet rage, though her expression remains eerily calm.

She breathes in, tries to make her anger fall away, and breathes out again. She touches him tenderly then, letting her fingers work into the shorn hair behind his ears, down to caress the back of his neck, attempting to heal him with her small hands, but her eyes well over. She hates that she cries so easily when she's with him, just as she hates the tears that shine all too often in his eyes for her.

This isn't exactly the type of evening she'd had in mind months ago, when she'd longed for November and the changes it might bring. Tonight she should be making love to him in a proper bed, palming his rough cheek, feeling her wedding band catch against the stubble there. She should be rolling in the sheets with him every evening, lost in the warm slide of his skin against hers, sleeping as he holds her tight in his arms. She should be able to move toward him in the night, seeking heat and comfort and the pleasure that he seems to bring out of her so easily. It was all supposed to be settled weeks ago, but she knows now that the flimsy piece of paper they've waited patiently for will never actually come. They have nothing substantial to show for their years of struggle.

She takes his hand, mapping the creases in his palm from habit, and she flashes on the slip of fine linens across her bare skin, the solid weight of him moving over her in a luxurious bedroom as the fire cracks and pops on the hearth. Her grandmother would call it a vision, a window to the future. Anna fears it's just wishful thinking. Sighing, she turns her face into his palm.

He's looking at her so intently, and she's compelled to ask why. He traces the wet trails on her cheek with his thumb. "You are beautiful."

She smiles through her tears, touching his face in turn, and as the candlelight catches in his eyes, something there shifts and darkens. She meets the heat in his gaze with her own, blinking down at him as he fits his palms to the curve of her waist. She closes her eyes for a moment, thinking. The Abbey is quiet and still. Everyone else has gone to bed, and there's nowhere the two of them need to be. The conservatory door is locked carefully behind them. The terra cotta pots from the workbench are already stacked neatly on the floor. The new gardener apparently hasn't felt the need to hide the key any better, and she doesn't want to do anything to change that. The only sign that might advertise their presence here is the flickering of the candle. When she opens her eyes again, he's still watching her. He lets his fingers trail across the hollow between her collarbones. Her body has missed him, but, oh, it's not forgotten.

She reaches out to slip the knot from his tie. "We shouldn't," she says seriously. There really are several important reasons, none of which she can recall just now. She pops the stud at his collar and lets her fingers slip beneath.

"We shouldn't," he agrees, but his voice is warm and low. He's already bunching up her skirts with his large hands.

The decision isn't difficult. She extinguishes the candle, plunging the conservatory into darkness. They know each other well enough that they don't need to light the way. She can feel his answering smile against her lips, and she loves it.

He's still seated at the workbench, and kissing him this way is quite a different experience. She finds it's endlessly pleasing to hover just above him, to stoop slightly to meet his lips as her nimble fingers work at his waistcoat buttons. Presently, he settles her into his lap, planting long, open-mouthed kisses across her neck. His lips leave her skin only long enough for him to help her pull his braces over his shoulders. He finds and releases the buttons at the back of her neck until he's able to spread his hands flat across her shoulder blades. She shrugs out of the top of her dress, letting it pool at her waist, and he traces the bustline of her corset with his thumbs. His teeth graze her jawline, and her head lolls back.

She lets her mind gently wander as he holds her fast against him. If they ran away together, she'd still wear his ring, and she'd fall into bed with him every night. They'd wake tangled together every morning, and she'd smile as she eased her thigh over his hip, asking for five more minutes, just five more minutes before the intrusion of the day. God, she wants him. She wants to fit his body to hers, to feel him moving deep within her as her breath catches and she buries her face in his neck. If they ran away together...

Tomorrow she'll stare at a neatly folded telegram and wish she'd disappeared into the night with him forever. Vera has already taken that option away as well, but Anna can't predict the news that's bearing down on them. She refuses to believe that this is all they'll ever have together, but if it is, she wants to make it last. Opportunities are few and far between.

"God, Anna…" His voice is rough and filled with longing, and she'll never tire of hearing him say her name when they're together this way. She blinks away her jumbled thoughts, the questions of right and wrong and what in world they'll do now, and focuses solely on the current arcing between them. He is hers. He always has been, and she wants nothing more than to hear him say her name again.

She rises from his lap, and he makes a disappointed noise until she steps out of her dress. She moves to hang it on the hook with his coat, then she finds his hand in the dark, pulling him to his feet. His dress shirt is a splash of white amidst the deep blues and greys of the conservatory at night, and she eases him out of it as his fingers trail along her busk. She helps him, each clasp giving way with a satisfying click, and she sighs with relief once she's freed. He turns her, trailing his lips across the back of her neck. His warm hands slide under her chemise, spreading flat across the slope of her abdomen, then up to cup the soft weight of her breasts. The thin strap slips from her right shoulder, and he kisses her there, his tongue flicking out to taste her. She pushes back against him, and he groans into her ear.

She turns back to him then, and what started out sweet and gentle soon becomes frenzied, biting. She's a little alarmed at how much she's missed this. She tugs his undershirt off over his head so that she can feel the sweet heat of his skin beneath her fingers. He backs carefully against the table edge, pulling her with him and leaning against the workbench for support. His hands slide up the backs of her thighs, indenting the flesh and running under the hem of her knickers. He crushes his lips to hers.

It's probably fortunate they're not in a bed, because she's not sure they'd be able to stop themselves this time. Everything feels too good, and with the all the pent-up emotion from the day finally boiling over, she knows exactly what would happen. He meets her eyes. He feels it too.

"Why are you smiling?" he asks cheekily. The question resonates deliciously in her ear, and he bends to kiss her there.

Slowly, she reaches down between them and works his fly open, running the blade of her hand inside. He gasps against her neck, then leans back, planting his hands firmly on the tabletop behind him, his fingers splayed against the marred oak. She kisses him again before carefully settling to her knees before him. She'll run both her stockings this way, but she'll smile to herself as she darns them later, alone in her room. Her lips part to take him in, and he can't tangle his hands in her hair tonight, so he strokes her bare shoulders and sighs beneath her as she loves him. She doesn't stop until he reaches breathless release. Then he's pulling her to her feet, turning them and lifting her onto the edge of the tabletop with a grunt. He draws her near, wrapping her legs around him, tugging her knickers out of the way as his thick fingers move down to delve into the slippery folds between her thighs. Her arms encircle his neck, and she holds on tight as they move in rhythm together, closing her eyes against the thrill of it. This time, she doesn't find her pleasure in a rough jolt, but rather in nuanced sensations that build and overlap, flooding her senses until she's overcome, and he's right there with her, holding her body flush with his as she comes back down.

There's nowhere to lie back together here, and it's too cold and too late to take a blanket out to the meadow. Instead, he buttons her carefully back into her dress. She helps him with his waistcoat, then fetches his hat and cane before setting the conservatory to rights, making sure she has the candle and holder in hand. It won't do to be careless now.

They hold one another close in the little greenhouse doorway before they part for the evening, her head tucked under his chin. He's her lover, she thinks with a hot blush. Her world. The words he spoke as they lay together in his darkened London bedroom come drifting back to her, and she'll take comfort in them as she faces the coming months of uncertainty. They've been lovers, in the truest sense of the word, for a long while now, and they will be together eventually no matter the cost.

* * *

* Feedback is fed plump, juicy grapes and fanned with palm fronds.

* This chapter is for **awesomegreentie** and** annambates**, because of this post: post/119984866081/awesomegreentie-adamsforthought. It is also dedicated to all of the readers who wrote me asking for smut... *ahem* detailed lovemaking.

* Beta for this series is provided by **terriejane, gelana78, downtonluvr**, and **giginutshell**. **angel-princess-anna** provides timeline fact-checking. Any errors are my own.

* The quote at the beginning of the chapter is from one of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's letters to Robert Browning. For a masterlist of works referenced in Mystery of Joy, go here: post/117664022751/masterlist-of-works-referenced-in-mystery-of-joy

* Series 2, Episode 6 begins in late October, then covers the events of three days in November. This chapter is set on Sunday, November 10, 1918. Find full Mystery of Joy timeline information here: post/119791583851/mystery-of-joy-timeline


	23. Kindling

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 23: Kindling

by Lynn Saunders

_There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. - Washington Irving_

**December 1918**

The hotel pub is grimy and maudlin, with it's dark wood trim and peeling paint, smoke curling through the air in thick plumes. The man Bates came to see sits alone at the bar with a bottle of whiskey. Vera's brand. John removes his hat and stiffly takes the next seat, clearing his throat. "Mr. Abbott?"

The man turns slowly, nods once. John reaches into the breast pocket of his coat to retrieve the bundle of letters that he once thought would save him, wrapped neatly in brown paper and twine. He places the package on the bar and slides it across the water-spotted wood.

"Husband?"

Bates clears his throat and looks away. "We were married once."

Abbott pours a shot and knocks it back with practiced ease. "Yeah…" He barks a bitter laugh. "Never told me about you." The younger man pushes the bundle of letters away. "She weren't right, in the end. Stark raving."

"She's at peace now." John suddenly recognizes the absurdity of it all, of trying to comfort his late wife's past lover, of returning the tokens of affection this man sent to Vera, of being the one saddled with seeing to her affairs in the end. He wonders briefly what Anna would think if she knew what he'd gotten up to with his precious time off. He frowns then, because there used to be no secrets between them. Once again, he has been tempted to skirt the whole truth because of Vera. The thought sets up an icy ache in the pit of his stomach.

Abbott snorts. "Peace? Doubt it." He takes another shot and wavers on the stool before gripping the bar with both hands. "It'd gone to her brain, you know."

Bates pushes the bundle forward once more, and Abbott smacks it with the back of his hand so hard that it careens behind the counter and into the bartender's wash basin, where it bloats and sags before disappearing beneath the surface.

Abbott leans in close. "I had the sores. I know what she carried, and it weren't our child."

When Bates saw Vera for the last time on that fateful November evening, she was erratic, slurring her words even though he didn't smell whiskey on her breath. It was as if something had possessed her, and he'd entertained a fleeting thought, rooted in a distant memory of an acquaintance in the service who'd apparently gone mad years later from something he picked up from one of the women who followed the deployed soldiers around, selling their company.

Abbott has unceremoniously pressed his forehead against the bar and passed out. Bates carefully rises from his seat, replacing his hat. He leaves standing tall, pushing the pub doors open with both hands and letting them slam shut behind him as he walks out into the gloom of early winter.

Bates has one more stop to make, and he doesn't want to have to do this either, but he feels it's what he owes. No one has cared to mourn Vera. The little wooden urn - only a box, really - is oddy light in his hands. He signs for it with a sigh. He was her next of kin.

Not far from his mother's home, close to his old neighborhood, lies a small piece of untouched land. The scenery has changed through the years, but for a brief moment in time, this was their place. Vera brought him here when he was still a young man with something to prove, and they passed a bottle back and forth until he got the courage to kiss her. Back then, this place was all lush greenery, the air laced with the honeyed sweetness of early summer. Now it's barren, the leafless trees stark and ashen, their trunks cold to the touch. The memory of what used to be is especially painful because of what they once had together, if only for a little while, turned black and bitter with all of the hate that sprung from their fleeting love. Though they did not part well, hers was a shadowed presence in his life for years, and in a way he grieves for her despite everything she put him through. In the end, he scatters Vera's ashes in a glen where a little brook ripples along, carving the icy landscape, and he hopes she will be at rest.

* * *

He doesn't remember December being this sparse or frigid before. His bones creak from the cold with every crunching bite of snow underfoot. He'd agreed to go to town with Anna even though he fears it's not quite right to do so. He won't take her hand or offer his arm. He feels endlessly guilty over their togetherness, knows that she must be hurt by the ways he's subtly withdrawn from her. He can only hope she understands, but she's still here with him, isn't she? They walk quietly together, an arm's length apart, and Anna keeps her hands clasped carefully in front of her. She's bestowed this endless loyalty upon him, and he doesn't deserve it, doesn't deserve her. She has been circling watchfully for weeks now, giving him space, waiting patiently for his next move toward her, but he's wandering aimlessly, kept adrift, and he's not sure how to stop now.

Vera wanted so badly to hurt him, to hurt Anna, that she made the ultimate sacrifice. It was genius in a sick sort of way: now he looks suspicious, guilty at the very least of driving his wife toward her untimely death, and he can't very well marry Anna now, can he? Abbott was right about one thing; Vera couldn't have been in her right mind. She had a mean streak, but she wasn't rash with her decisions, and she wasn't prone to self-harm. Most of the people who knew her understand that self-preservation was Vera's lifeblood. It all looks so bad from the outside, and he feels the sideways glances, the whispers. He knows what people must be thinking. What if Vera didn't do it, after all?

Now the ghost of his past haunts him worse than ever, and he has a sneaking suspicion that the police have been round more than necessary. They've combed through his mother's home one time too many, and their questions are troublesome. He answers as politely as he can. No, they weren't happy. Yes, he'd sought a divorce and been angry when it was blocked. Yes, he'd seen her the night she'd taken her last breath, fought with her, carried the mark of her anger on his skin like a brand for all to see. He fears what might be coming, feels the storm approaching just as the wet nip in the air betrayed the falling snow, and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that neither he nor Anna are prepared for it.

He pushes those thoughts down and warms a bit inside when her path angles them toward the little tea room. It's the week before Christmas, and a holly berry wreath hangs on the door. He follows Anna obediently, placing his coat and hat on the hall tree. He doesn't help her with hers, can't quite bring himself to touch her out in the open just yet, even innocently. The realness of everything that's changed hasn't quite caught up with him, and suspicious eyes are watching, he knows.

To his great relief, Anna doesn't bring any of it up yet. She smiles at him over the rim of her teacup and speaks of preparing the house for Christmas, a safe topic. When his mind drifts darkly away from their conversation and he begins to brood about what's ahead for them, she pushes her plate of chocolate biscuits toward him and gives a sympathetic blink. The cookies are a rare gift, and he looks into her eyes when he thanks her. He sees his worry reflected there, trust and love.

In the evening, she finds him sitting on an overturned crate in the courtyard despite the frigid air outside. She pulls her winter coat tightly around her and takes her place at his side. The night sky still holds the haze of snowfall.

"How are you?" Concern softens her eyes, and ultimately he confesses it all, as a sinner would to a priest - Abbott, the ashes, everything. She listens, silent and respectful. When he's finished, she huffs out a frosty breath, turning toward him carefully. "You did the best you could, what you felt was right."

He nods slowly, rubbing his temples, the muscles in his shoulders drawn taut with the strain of his troubled thoughts. When she shifts in his peripheral vision, he notes that her expression is strained as well. He heaves a rough sigh. "I didn't mean to upset you."

She shakes her head sharply. "I'm glad you told me. You don't have to go through this alone, you know."

He knows. "What's troubling you?" He looks at her intently until she gives a self-conscious shrug and tentatively voices her concern.

"You haven't been touching me," she says quietly.

He sighs and tries to look away so that he might gather the right words together, but his eyes can't quite leave hers. She reaches out as if to run her fingers along his coat sleeve, but stops herself. How can he explain?

Finally, her gaze flicks away. "I'm not cross with you." She swallows hard, her hands twisting in her lap. "But I've noticed, and I worry-"

"Anna, I..." He's interrupted her even though he still doesn't know what to say. He stares as his shoes.

She raises both eyebrows for a moment, taking a shaky breath and pushing forward. "I think you are punishing yourself too harshly for something you could do nothing to prevent."

Her words hold more than one meaning. He doesn't have to explain, after all. She already knows. After all these years, they've become quite skilled in decoding one another. It's not really even about Vera, this gloom he's fallen into. He's mourning anew what might've been, if he'd been able to resolutely cut back the love that bloomed so quickly within him for Anna, if he'd been able to nip it in the bud and spare her all this trouble.

He looks at her then, turning his wet eyes to meet hers, his brow creased with grief and longing. _Vis insita_, he thinks. He has been set adrift. Luckily, she's the greatest positive force his life has known. She turns her bare hand palm-up against her knee, and he stares at it for a moment before slowly reaching out to twine their fingers together. He exhales roughly, his relief immediate, and he moves the soft flesh of her knuckles to his lips, letting the delicate skin on the back of her hand scrape against the fine sandpaper of his cheek. She pulls him to her, and he stoops somewhat awkwardly so that she can settle his head firmly under her chin. She pets him, running her fingers lightly through his hair as he tries to measure his breathing in the December chill. She's not worried to see him grieve, he realizes. She's not alarmed by it, and she doesn't fear his feelings for her are any less because of it. He can hear her heart beating fiercely in her chest. It beats for him alone, he knows. The thought has never been quite so real and strong, so thrilling. Just like that, his guilt and heartache have fallen away.

He moves to kiss her gently, reverently, and they sit quietly together for a time. Anna is pressed against his side, and he snugs her to him with his arm around her shoulders because he finally feels he's worthy of it again. She shivers, and he nudges the top of her head with his nose. "We should go inside."

"We should." She tucks her cheek against his chest. Neither of them makes a move to leave. "Thank you for going to town with me today." She hesitates for a moment, then decides to say what they're both thinking. "I know it's awkward to go about together after what's happened, but things have to move forward eventually. And I needed the company."

The fact that he is her closest confidant still startles him from time to time. He kisses her hair. "Did you find everything you were looking for in Ripon today, Miss Smith?"

"I did, in fact."

"Oh yes?"

He hugs her tighter, and she smiles against the warm wool of his overcoat, giving a contented hum in response.

"You know what seems suspicious to me? You didn't have any bundles to carry home until you slipped away for a few moments."

She shrugs innocently.

"And your answers on the matter have been evasive." His lips find the curve of her ear, and she giggles. "Might your purchases have included something for me?"

She shifts in his embrace, turning so that she can face him, and her smile is bright in the low light of the courtyard. He sees mischief there, a promise for the future. He's got something for her too, tucked away carefully up in his room, and it's a gift that's long overdue. The creases at the corners of his eyes deepen when he thinks of it, and he smiles down at her for the first time in weeks.

* * *

They slip down the back hall and out through the servants' door as the party rages on inside. It's Christmas Eve, and earlier they'd joined the smaller gathering in Mrs. Hughes' sitting room. He'd sipped strong coffee as Mr. Carson brought out the leftover claret, and John had watched with interest as the wine stained Anna's lips. He's spent the evening thinking of kissing the rich color away. The stoop is wet and cold, and he pulls her close, wrapping the split edges of his overcoat around her and bending down to meet her as the heavy wooden door falls shut behind them.

"Do you remember?" He whispers the question against her neck, and she closes her eyes for a moment, tipping her head back with a smile. His lips hover just below her ear, but he doesn't kiss her yet.

Mistletoe is tacked to the beam above the door once more, in just the right spot, and as he points it out to her, he realizes that she knows he must've put it there, that she wonders if he hung it on that long ago Christmas Eve as well. She takes his face in her small hands, and as his eyes search hers, he sees that, yes, she does definitely remember. She takes his hand and laces their fingers together. He moves the back of her hand to his lips before pulling her fully into his warm embrace. Around them, the night is bright with new snow.

"I've brought you something," she says, and he smiles against her hair.

He doesn't say what he's thinking, that they should be having their own private Christmas in their cottage by now. Months ago, the idea of what they're missing would've crushed him, but now all he can do is smile at the thought of exchanging presents beneath their own little tree, sipping tea before their own hearth, making love in their own bed. What can he say? He's been in a sentimental mood lately. They won't trudge hand-in-hand through the snow to the conservatory, and they both understand exactly why not, how dangerous it would be. Their relationship has returned, as always, to the realm of careful restraint.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Bates."

This time, it's she who presses a book into his palm beneath the mistletoe. Of course it's wrapped, because it's from her, and he eagerly tears the bright paper, revealing the title. _The Story of the Stars_.

"Now we can gaze at them properly," she says, and he gives a delighted chuckle.

He grins as he thumbs through the pages, catching glimpses of truly wonderful things- constellations and nebulas, brightness and color, scale and expanse. He pauses for a moment when his fingers drift through the middle of the book: _The Stars in Poetry_.

"Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, God hath written in those stars above," he reads. "Longfellow." He turns the page as she smiles up at him. A bit of Tennyson is there at the top, and he stops when he sees it, his lips turning up into a boyish grin. "Those double stars whereof the one more bright is circled by the other." He looks at her significantly, and she blushes in the cast light from the windows above.

"I'm glad you like it." She reaches up to adjust the fall of his tie.

"I love it," he says, kissing her forehead. "And I love you." He dips his fingers into his waistcoat pocket for a moment. "I've brought you something, too." When he opens his hand, a delicate circle of love-worn gold shines in his palm.

She gives a quiet gasp and goes still.

"It was my mother's," he says softly. "Now it's yours."

She stands frozen in place for a moment, staring at the ring in disbelief before tentatively reaching out to trace the cherished band with her fingertip.

"I know you can't wear it properly just yet, but..." He stumbles over the words a bit, and she takes the opportunity to rise on tiptoe and kiss him. He hugs her close, pulling her tight against him, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. She buries her face in his neck, and they sway together gently beneath the mistletoe as the downstairs clock tolls out the first hour of the new day.

* * *

* This chapter is for giginutshell, who suggested neurosyphilis as a possible cause when we were discussing how OOC revenge-suicide seems for Vera's character. Women in science!

* The quote at the beginning of the chapter is from Washington Irving's _Wife_ (from _The Sketch Book_).

* Vera died in November 1918, at the end of Series 2, Episode 6. This chapter is set in December. The events of Series 2, Episode 7 don't occur until January/February 1919.

* For a full Mystery of Joy timeline, and to see a masterlist of literary works referenced in this series, please visit lynnsaundersfanfic dot tumblr dot com backslash banna.

* Beta for this series has been provided by terriejane, gelana78, downtonluvr, and giginutshell. I love all of you.


	24. Closer

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 24: Closer

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_The grey sea and the long black land; and the yellow half-moon large and low; and the startled little waves that leap in fiery ringlets from their sleep, as I gain the cove with pushing prow, and quench its speed i' the slushy sand. - Robert Browning, Meeting at Night_

**February 1919**

She gets in late, slinking through the back door with the three Crawley sisters in tow. He's waiting up for her, naturally, reading in the servants' hall, and he raises his eyebrows at her as the girls slip up the stairs. She only shakes her head and heaves a world-weary sigh. What a day.

She sits tiredly beside him, and he takes her hand. They've so much to talk about. Vera's letter to Mrs. Bartlett has worried her about the police anew, and Sybil's sneaking off to be wed has made her yearn for things that cannot be, but they don't speak.

Anna looks into his sleepy eyes for a moment before carefully rising and making her way to the kitchen. He follows silently, leaning back heavily against the kitchen island, watching as she fills the kettle and moves it to the burner. She sighs, turning to face him, and his hands find their way to the curve of her waist.

The kitchen is dark, everyone else is abed, and they take a moment to rest together there, indulging in the simple comfort of sharing space before the hour forces them apart for the night. She leans into him, closing her eyes as she tucks her head against his chest. Last week, she'd opened her newest anonymous valentine with bittersweet longing. She feels as if time is passing them by.

We should go ahead and marry, she thinks, but she doesn't dare say it aloud. Not yet. She's too wound up, too raw to hear him tell her all the reasons they can't, however half-hearted his protests would be. She needs time to think, to fully understand the reason she feels this way before she speaks. She wants to form an articulate argument, to provide reasoning he can't deny.

He hugs her tight until the kettle whistles from the stove. In another darkened kitchen, years from now, he'll hold her this way as he presses his palm to the subtle swelling below her navel, the first tangible sign of a new life they'll be too in awe to speak of, afraid to break the spell. Now, he brushes the hair from her forehead and tells her everything will be alright. His words are genuine, murmured with conviction in the borrowed privacy of the kitchen past midnight. And for now, she believes him.

* * *

Weeks pass. The icy remnants of winter yield to the budding of spring flowers, and that stirring feeling of hers doesn't yield. Instead, it grows stronger.

Ironically, it's the memory of the words he spoke in private after Vera's death that will eventually give voice to Anna's case. She needs to be his next of kin, to be able to face what's ahead, secure in the knowledge that she will have every right to attend to his affairs if the police come knocking, and he can't deny her that. She rarely demands anything of him, knowing his inability to refuse her, but she must insist on this. It's time.

She meets him in Ripon on a brilliant April day, leaving the cares at Downton behind the minute she steps up to him and takes his arm. Their gazes level and hold as their vows are spoken, but the words don't register. She remembers only the overwhelming sense of being loved, the unfamiliar weight of a gold band on the fourth finger of her left hand, and the promise and joy in his eyes.

Afterward, he pulls her close in the hallway. "It won't be long now," he says with a smile, and she knows exactly what he means. Cheeky beggar. She loves him so.

They don't have much time, but for a little while they walk the streets arm in arm. It's a blur, and the time slips by quickly. She distinctly remembers kissing him fervently beneath the old oak tree in the meadow, spending a few moments there as they make the short walk from the bus stop, her wedding band hidden beneath her gloves. Her heart breaks a little when she has to remove it to prepare for the night ahead, and she tucks the ring carefully back into her tiny jewelry box for safekeeping.

At dinner, she lets her leg press against his in secret, and Thomas scowls at Mr. Bates across the table, asking what he's so damn cheerful about. Jane catches Anna's eye and gives her an odd smile.

She goes through her evening routine, readying Mary for bed, but her thoughts never leave him, and in the end, the excitement of being able to spend the night with her new husband makes her more than a little breathless. She jots a few words and folds them into his palm with a saucy smile before she sees to the other ladies for the night, all the while knowing that he waits for her, just down the hall.

* * *

* The next bit of the story I've added as "chapter 25," but it is actually one of the first DA fics I wrote. It is A Meeting at Night, a wedding night story. Mystery of Joy was always meant to be a "prequel" of sorts for this wedding night fic, but I have decided to include it here within Mystery of Joy at FF dot net to make it easier to navigate through the timeline. It will also remain separate, as originally posted with it's sequel. We have two chapters of Mystery of Joy still left to go, but for now, it's time for the wedding night! They've gone and gotten married!

* Beta for this series has been provided by terriejane, giginutshell, gelana78, and downtonluvr.

* A full Mystery of Joy timeline and a masterlist of literary and musical works referenced in the series is available at lynnsaundersfanfic dot tumblr dot com backslash banna.


	25. A Meeting at Night

* This wedding night fic was written prior to Mystery of Joy, but they belong together, so I decided to also include it here as well, even though it can stand alone. All of my DA-Era fic exists within the same rough timeline. See notes at the end of the chapter for details. Now, on to the wedding night!

* * *

**A Meeting at Night**

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; three fields to cross till a farm appears; a tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch and blue spurt of a lighted match, and a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears, than the two hearts beating each to each! - Robert Browning_

**April 1919**

He folds the little note with trembling fingers and tucks it into his waistcoat pocket, waiting until the others have turned in for the night before climbing the stairs to his room, knowing every minute he delays is a minute without her. He regards the line of his jaw in the mirror, deciding a shave is well worth the time. He adjusts and straightens, re-knots his tie, and takes one last look before leaving his solitary room, closing the door behind him with a click of finality.

In the guest corridor, the halls are quiet and empty. He stands before the door, placing his hand flat against the wood for a few moments before turning the knob and moving toward his future. The room is warm and softly lit, and she's not yet there. He experiences a beat, an instant of worry that she has changed her mind. Then he remembers the look in her eyes as she folded the scrap of paper into his palm, letting her fingertips linger against his wrist before walking away. He had stared at the private words, the lines that brought him here tonight, printed in her delicate hand, with simultaneous disbelief and gnawing want.

He moves to the foot of the bed, reaching out to touch the duvet, sliding the silky edge between his fingers. This is nice, he thinks, far more elegant than anything he could have hoped to provide for her tonight. He removes his watch, placing it on the mantle. The handle of his cane hooks nicely over the arm of the chair, and he sits, relaxed. Waiting.

When she slips into the room, slightly out of breath from the thrill of sneaking around, she's still in her maid's uniform, sans the apron and cap. She gives a little shrug and a secret smile, just as she might do on any other regular evening, and the contrast between what he sees in front of him and what he knows is on her mind makes him feel dizzy.

He stands and takes a step forward, offering his hand, an invitation. She comes to him slowly. Her fingers meet his, and she steps into his embrace, turning her face into his chest and breathing in. They remain pressed together for a long while, his large hands moving across her back, his heartbeat hypnotic beneath her ear.

He presses his lips to her hairline gently, then moves to kiss her forehead, her fine cheekbones, her nose. His hands frame her face, and he tilts her chin so that her eyes meet his before lowering his mouth to hers. He is utterly taken with her, mesmerized by the way her lips part in anticipation.

She touches his face in turn, letting her fingers slide across the plane of his cheek. His soap-spiced skin is smooth beneath her fingers. "You shaved for me?" She smiles, pleased.

His lips meet hers again, moving deeper, and she rises on tiptoe to meet him, his strong arms tight around her waist. She pushes at his coat, and he shrugs out of it, tossing it onto the chair behind them. He notes the faint tremor in her fingers as she unknots his tie, and he stills her hands gently with his. "If you're nervous, we can just…" He swallows hard. "Simply sleeping next to you tonight would far exceed my expectations."

Indeed, no more than a few hours ago, they were lamenting their need to remain apart for a while longer. He knows that Anna, because of her work and their previous encounters, is not completely naïve to the nature of the marriage bed, that she is inexperienced in practice but well-acquainted with the idea. It's been such a long time for him, too. He has experienced so many lonely nights, years of turning his face into his pillow in frustration. Even so, the frank desire he always sees mirrored back to him is something he couldn't anticipate, a gift he'd been too afraid to hope for. No one has ever responded to his touch as eagerly and fully as this normally gentle and reserved woman. She astonishes him. And now she's here and soft and perfect, with the warm glow of the candles dancing in her eyes, painting her hair silver and gold. In all honesty, he finds their current situation a little overwhelming, and he would truly be content to simply drift in the firelight, curled protectively around her, if that's what she wants.

He needn't worry; it's the intensity of his touch that's making her hands shake, the hot rush of excitement at the thought of finally being able to have him this way. She grasps the end of his tie between her thumb and forefinger, looking into his eyes as she slips the material from under his collar, allowing it to fall at their feet. "I'm not nervous," she whispers. "I'm with you."

He smiles, his warm hands moving to her waist as he backs her gently against the bedpost. "We have all night?"

She sighs as he stoops to trail his lips across her neck. "Yes-" Her reply is cut short as he moves to kiss her again, pressing into her, the cool ribbed wood of the bedpost firm against her spine.

When their lips part, he rests his forehead against hers. "Well then, I don't think we should hurry."

His attention returns to the creamy skin of her neck in earnest while her fingernails dig into his shirtsleeves, and he ventures under the collar of her dress, leaving a mark that will take a week to disappear. Later, when he's locked away, she will run her fingers over her love-bruised collarbone as she stands bared before the mirror in private, and she will think longingly of this moment.

Her fingers stray to the front of his waistcoat, working at the closure. He leans back slightly to assist her, tossing it to the floor as she starts to undo the buttons at the front of her dress.

"Wait," he says gently. "May I?"

She nods, suddenly embarrassed. "I didn't have time to get anything proper for a wedding night."

His hands slide flat across the backs of her shoulders. That she's wearing the same clothing he sees her in everyday, so familiar, the way he's imagined the two of them coming together for years, only makes him want her more. "You are beautiful."

She reaches out to run her fingers under his braces, using them to pull him closer as he makes quick work of her dress. She lets the fabric slip down her shoulders, and he slides the demure uniform over her hips, revealing a side of her that's reserved only for him. She steps out of her skirts somewhat awkwardly, leaning against him as he extends a hand to steady them against the bed frame.

"Shoes," she says, and they both laugh quietly together.

He watches, fascinated, as she bends to remove her heels, then slowly unclasps and removes her corset. Her peaked nipples stand out against the softness of her chemise as she reaches up to let down her hair, the soft curls falling around her face.

"Come here," he growls. He scoops her up and tosses her lightly onto the bed, and she gives a surprised squeal, clamping her hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter.

"Be careful of your knee," she says, giggling.

"You'd be surprised at what I can still do." He removes his shoes in turn and approaches the bed, leaning over her to steal a kiss. "Is this alright?"

"Of course." She makes room for him to lay down, and he stretches his long body out beside her, propped on his elbow.

"What do you want to do now?" he asks, feigning innocence.

"I'm sure you know, Mr. Bates," she teases.

He runs the backs of his fingers across her cheek, traces the pad of his thumb over her lips, and his breath catches when they part to taste him. His strong hands graze the rise of her breasts through her chemise, and she sighs beneath him, closing her eyes. Her fingers slide to the back of his neck as he takes a nipple into his mouth through the fabric, the sensation cutting into her.

"Call me John," he whispers against her breast.

"Hmm?" she asks dreamily.

He pulls away so that he can look into her eyes. "Call me John?"

"John," she whispers, smiling at the foreignness of the word.

He grins at her. "What?" he asks, gently freeing her breast from its silken confines. His mouth closes around her bare nipple, sending a burning jolt of pleasure zinging through her like a live wire.

"John," she sighs, her fingers tangling in his hair. She will say his first name once more tonight, later, as his tongue moves between her thighs and she shatters against him for the second time.

She can't slide his braces off of his shoulders from her current position, so she settles for untucking his dress shirt, then his undershirt, letting her small fingers creep beneath, across his bare back. He gets the message, letting her nipple fall from his mouth, wet and glistening, so that he can remove more of the layers between them.

He sheds his braces as she works at his shirt buttons, but he quickly becomes frustrated. He yanks both of the offending articles off over his head and throws them to the floor before covering her with his body once more.

She sighs at the feel of his pleasant weight pushing her into the bed, his broad shoulders bare beneath her hands as he envelops her, solid and warm. Instinctually, her hips shift to receive him, and she starts at the contact as he settles between her thighs. She can feel the hot, hard length of him even through their clothes.

"Oh," she smiles against his lips. "That's nice." She slides the instep of her stockinged foot up the back of his leg, and he shivers as she begins to rock against him subtly, falling into a primal rhythm, old as time.

Suddenly, she finds herself on the verge of something hot and bright, wonderful, and she struggles toward the sensation building deep within her. He senses her quickening, and he asks her what she needs, whispers the question against her ear, continually amazed that she can come so close to the edge with little more than his touch.

"I need…" She's not sure what she needs. She feels empty, agitated, almost frantic in her desire to ease the burning ache centering low in her belly. She wants him to melt into her. She tells him this, and he groans, rolling them onto their sides, one long leg snaking between hers. He wets his index finger and touches it to the hollow of her throat.

"I think I know what you need," he says, tucking her hair behind her ear, "if you trust me."

She does, completely. That is her answer.

He gently separates himself from her and rises from the bed, gathering the pillows together in a mound against the headboard. She rests on her knees, watching.

"Come here." He crooks a finger toward her, and she moves to sit at the edge of the bed. He slides his hands down her silken thighs, carefully removing her stockings and knickers. Her fingers move to his trousers, and he takes a shuddering breath as she peels the last of his clothing away.

She runs her fingers through the mat of hair that crosses his chest, the trail that dips low and thins across his navel before reemerging to frame his sex. She slips her arms around his neck, rising to stand beside him. His large hands skim her thighs, running under her chemise, across her buttocks, and up the curve of her her back. He removes the thin fabric in one motion, drawing his hands across her flushed skin. He holds her as they stand bared to one another completely, absolutely nothing separating them for the first time, and she's never felt anything like this, the way their bodies meld together, the sweet heat of his skin seeping through into hers.

He settles onto the bed, half-sitting, leaning back against the pillows, and draws her near. She rises on her knees above him, hands on his shoulders for balance as his mouth moves to her breasts once more. Meanwhile, his fingers are working slow magic, rubbing lower and lower against her belly until they reach the vee at her thighs. He gently parts the slick folds with his thumb, searching for just the right spot. She cries out when he finds it, and the rest of the household might hear, but she is beyond caring. She sets up their familiar rhythm again, grinding unabashedly against his fingers. She pulls his face up so that she can kiss him. He watches with wonder as she bucks above him, ignoring his own need as he helps her find pleasure. He presses up against her with one long finger, finding her soft and ready, and her eyes snap open at the new sensation.

"More?" he asks, and she nods against his forehead.

A second finger joins the first, and she feels herself stretching, readying for him. She hums against the pressure, rocking against him in earnest now as he marks her neck with his lips. She reaches up to cup her breasts with both hands, and his mouth falls open. In his wildest dreams, he could not have imagined she would be this open, this free with him, and he's surprised by it anew each time they come together. She really is the most seductive thing.

Her breath is becoming ragged now, and she closes her eyes, concentrating. She can feel herself drawn in a tight spiral, balancing on the knife-edge, and suddenly she springs free, riding waves of coursing pleasure until she collapses breathless against him. He catches her, soothing his hands down her back as she nips at his neck. She sinks down into his lap where he is thick and hard and waiting for her. Threading her fingers behind his neck, she raises up slightly and lowers herself down onto him as his head falls back against the pillows. He squeezes her buttocks with both hands, and she gasps at the hot burst of pleasure.

He fills her just to the point of discomfort, but not more, and she bites her lip against the sweet sting. They take languid strokes together initially, learning, their speed increasing as she becomes more bold. She takes his face in her hands as she rises up and slams down again, watching as he finds release, his head tipped back, exposing the arch of his neck to her. He gathers her to him, eyes watering, and he's saying "Love." Love, Love, Love, against her neck. Afterward, they rest on their backs, separated and panting, her right hand holding tight to his left, her hair a diadem, spiked and scattered across the pillow.

Eventually, they will drift toward one another again, and she'll quiet his talk of trouble with her kisses. Deep in the night, he will watch her as she sleeps beside him, the taste of her still on his lips. In the morning, they will hold each other for a long while before parting to go about their day. "You are loved," she will say to him. "You are so very loved."

* * *

* This story was one of the first DA fics I wrote. Since then, I've written a couple of very important companion pieces. In fact, all of my DA-Era fic exists in roughly the same universe. So, this story occurs in April 1919, between Chapter 24 (Closer) and Chapter 25 (Evaporate) of Mystery of Joy. The story also has a directly related sequel: Homecoming. See the full timeline below.

* For eady-of-old, who prompted _slow_; annambates, who prompted _magic; _gelana78, who prompted _squeal_; and autisticmuttluver, who prompted _dress._

* Special thanks to terriejane and gelana78 for speedy beta!

**All of my DA-Era fic exits within roughly the same "canon-style" universe. Stories in order: Mystery of Joy - A Meeting at Night - Homecoming - Sweet Dreams - Hope Traversed at Night - Anything**

* _Meeting at Night_ occurs between Chapter 24 (Closer) and Chapter 25 (Evaporate) of _Mystery of Joy_. _Homecoming_ occurs between Chapter 25 (Evaporate) and the Epilogue of _Mystery of Joy_.


	26. Evaporate

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 25: Evaporate

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, and the sun looked over the mountain's rim: and straight was a path of gold for him, and the need of a world of men for me. - Robert Browning, Parting at Morning_

**April 1919**

She happens upon him in the hallway, loitering just outside the large closet, and she flashes him a secret smile over the stack of perfectly creased and folded linens in her arms. He chivalrously opens the door, then slips inside behind her, pulling it closed softly as she puts the sheets away. She raises an eyebrow, turning to face him in the low light, and he hugs her fiercely. There's barely enough room for the both of them in the small space between the shelves and the door, but she doesn't care. She smiles up at her husband and kisses him soundly, sighing as his lips blaze a path to the delicate skin behind her ear. He's already working on the buttons at her collar, and he whispers her married name against her neck, teasing.

This is terribly inappropriate. The house is in mourning, and in another few hours, they'll walk somberly together to see young Lavinia laid to rest. Here in this moment, though, the tragedy of the day makes Anna selfish. She's alive and well, and they've wasted so much time already. It's been two long days since she last felt the singe of him against her bare skin, and she is terribly impatient to experience just that again. But this will do, she thinks happily. A hot and breathy fumble in the closet will have to suffice until the next time she can have him properly.

He catches her left hand in his, bringing the back of her ring finger to his lips. "I can't wait to see you wear it every day."

"Who says I don't wear it every day now?"

She gives him a sly grin and brings his hand up to brush her collar aside, revealing a simple gold chain. He traces its path from her collarbones to the place where it dips below the fabric of her dress, and she knows he's imagining her wedding band secured there, the delicate weight of it settling into the furrow between her breasts. "You naughty girl," he whispers. She takes him by his lapels and kisses him again.

Maybe we can visit the greenhouse, she thinks, remembering his breath hot in her ear amidst the sweet smell of hothouse flowers, the jostle of the worn workbench beneath her. Stargazing in the meadow is also an alluring possibility. No one has ever interrupted them there. She smiles against his lips, dreaming of endless summer evenings that will never be.

* * *

She watches as he's led away in shackles, the startlingly familiar pain of losing him blooming hot in her chest anew. For long moments, there's nothing but the twisting yaw and pitch of her grief, and then she suddenly becomes aware of the hallway full of servants, staring at her with mouths agape. Only then does she realize she's given the two of them away, that she has reaffirmed her vows and kissed him in front of everyone. She stands rigid and unmoving in the face of their shock, her head held high, rooted to the spot until Mrs. Hughes moves in to gently lead her away.

In the housekeeper's sitting room, Mr. Carson eyes her worriedly, and Mrs. Patmore brings tea and her favorite biscuits, but they go untouched. When Mrs. Hughes suggests they give her some privacy, she shakes her head numbly. It doesn't matter who knows now. She unclasps the chain at her neck, removing her ring and sliding it securely into its rightful place.

Mrs. Hughes exchanges a worried look with Mr. Carson, and Mrs. Patmore closes the door behind them. Anna takes a deep breath.

"We were married on Friday," she says. The others remain silent. She presses the fingers of her right hand to her temple until the tears that threaten are pushed resolutely back.

Mrs. Hughes looks as if she wants to speak but can't quite form the words. Anna meets her eyes and waits patiently for the housekeeper to find her voice.

"Was there… cause for haste?"

"No," Anna assures her, then she pauses, remembering that she can't be completely sure now. No, it's not possible. How often does a child result from one night together? Then again, theirs wasn't simply a single union, was it? She'd woken him deep in the night, and he'd loved her nearly until the sun threatened the horizon. She puts her head in her hands.

There's a tap at the door, and Lord Grantham steps into the room, offering the promise of his help and his solicitor. His eyes flick to her wedding ring, then away again.

Their marriage is not mentioned further. No congratulations are in order. She sighs and wonders if he's alright. He won't be able to use his cane, and the thought makes her head hurt. His limp had been so exaggerated when they'd led him away.

Somehow, she stays strong, resolutely refusing to be relieved of her duties for the day, heartsick as she is. It won't do to spend the afternoon crying alone in her room; that won't save him. She needs to keep busy. Deep down, try as she might to deny it, she's known this day would come. They both have, just not that it would be quite so soon.

She irons and folds, washes and sews, and when she's done with the needlework for the ladies, she takes down Lord Grantham's dinner jacket, coaxing a stubborn stain from the sleeve and replacing two of the buttons. All of the shoes in the boot room get a thorough polishing. Thankfully, Thomas and O'Brien keep a wide berth.

Later, she pushes her dinner around on the plate, the table cloaked in uncharacteristic silence, and she's relieved when Lady Mary rings early. She'll have something more to do. Mary's eyes are soft, and she hugs Anna, squeezing the hand where the golden band gleams bright. "How awful," she says. "It was all anyone spoke of at dinner."

Anna gives a polite nod, stepping back to hang up the discarded gown, and Mary's eyes follow her in the vanity mirror as she works.

In the evening, Mrs. Hughes escorts her to the men's corridor. "Keep your head up, my girl. You've a good man, and I'm sure in the end, justice will be served."

The housekeeper then silently stands guard in the hallway while Anna sees to his room. It smells of him, and it's not unlike his cramped living quarters above the pub in Kirkbymoorside. The thought makes her linger in the threshold for a moment. She recognizes the heavy brass candle holder immediately. A thick taper is anchored there, and wax has dripped and set around the rim, a relic of his late-night reading. His beloved books are scattered: Yeats at the bedside, Spenser and Frost tucked neatly onto the shelf above his dresser, and her Christmas gift to him, the little astronomy book, laid open on the modest desk. The shirt he wore to their wedding is hanging unlaundered with his waistcoat and tie in his wardrobe. She presses the collar to her nose, and tears spring to her eyes. In the coming months, she'll sleep with his shirt every night, even after she can no longer detect his scent on the well-loved fabric.

She moves about the room, tidying as she goes. She pauses as she strips the bed, finding yet another book hidden away under his pillow. It's Browning's _Men and Women_, and she lifts the cover as if she's unearthing something precious. _Love Among the Ruins_ is tabbed, his favorite passages marked.

_That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair waits me there, in the turret whence the charioteers caught soul for the goal…_

She manages a small smile and thumbs through the book. It falls open at the last poem, and she stops and stares at the words, her vision blurring as her eyes well over. Her tears will permanently mark the end of the fourth stanza, running the ink and mottling the page. She dries her eyes with his handkerchief and tucks the book into his drawer. It won't be brought out again until he's home and free, but the words will stay with her, even so.

_And suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished._

* * *

* Anna and Bates marry on a Friday afternoon. Bates is arrested three days later, on Monday. For a full Mystery of Joy timeline, please visit lynnsaundersfanfic dot tumblr dot com backslash banna.

* Robert Browning's _Men and Women_, published in 1885, is the source for both of the poems referenced at the end. _Love Among the Ruins_ is the first poem in the book, and _One Word More_ is the last. Browning's poems _Meeting at Night _and _Parting at Morning_ are used in the introduction of the past three chapters. These poems are from Bates' other Browning, _Bells and Pomegranates. _For a masterlist of literary works referenced in Mystery of Joy, please visit lynnsaundersfanfic dot tumblr dot com backslash banna.

* Beta for this series has been provided by terriejane, giginutshell, gelana78, and downtonluvr.

* My original plan for this series was that this would be the last chapter, and we'd have a post-prison epilogue, following Homecoming. I'm currently undecided. I don't want to muddy the waters with 18 months of prison angst, though. So, I suppose what I'm saying is that I'm open to suggestions/requests, within reason.

* I've been working to finish this series because of a handful of very dedicated readers. I don't want to try to list you all, but you know who you are. You give me feedback every time. If you're reading this and you love it, please let me know. Honestly, it will be instrumental in how I decide to handle the remaining chapters.


	27. Vigil

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 26: Vigil

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_When I do come, she will speak not. She will stand, either hand on my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace of my face, ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech each on each. - Robert Browning, Love Among the Ruins_

**September 1920**

He can't tell if the time passes quickly or slowly. Every day runs into the next, the monotony eating at him. At least when Craig shared his cell, he had to keep a watchful eye. At least back then, he didn't have much time to dwell on the past or dream of an unlikely future. There won't be any sleeping tonight, of that he's certain, but this is one vigil he is happy to keep. He leans back in the desk chair and sighs. Lights out has long been ordered for the night, but by now he's mapped the sparse contents of his cell. He's used to maneuvering in the dark.

He's spent well over a year this way, counting the days until he's able to see her again, each time disappointed anew at the sturdy wooden table separating them, the way she often keeps her hands tucked neatly underneath so that she won't be tempted to reach for him. Still, the only bursts of color that mark his drab days are the rushed moments he spends with her. In that way, his old and new lives are no different. He thought he might go mad, back during those weeks in the summer when she was kept from him without cause.

He loves her fiercely. The distinct difference in his demeanor on the days his beautiful wife visits has never gone unnoticed, but the one time another prisoner made the mistake of speaking Anna's name, the bloke found himself pinned tight against the wall with a stout forearm wedged under his chin. Bates needed him to understand just how effortless it was. Afterward, he never so much as heard a whisper.

On nights like these, when he's particularly restless, his mind drifts back to old times. The thoughts are intoxicatingly painful, and he enjoys the sting in a strange way, as he imagines an addict might dream of the needle. Still, a half effort won't do. His memories are all he has right now, and they must do her justice. He looks back across their time together and feels grateful that they were allowed to share so much before he went away. Back then, he'd taken to burning every detail into his mind so that he might make it through to their next secret meeting at night. He's infinitely glad of that practice now, as the textures and tastes take form in his mind. He couldn't have known back then, but a separation of a few weeks or months pales in comparison to what they've had to endure.

Deep in the night, he's able to relive it all - drifting with her on a blanket as stars swirl above, waking on his mother's sofa with Anna moulded against his side, his tie falling to the floor in the firelight of a borrowed bedroom, the fit of his hands against her hips, her eyes in the darkened conservatory, a crush of longing in the linen closet on the day he was taken from her. The vivid detail eliminates the need to wonder if it was real, to worry that it was all a dream.

He hasn't felt her skin against his since the day they both thought he'd hang, when he asked for something to take with him. It's been months since he's been allowed to touch her. Through all the ups and downs, he hasn't even been able take her hand - not once. Not even when she sat across from him with tears shining in her eyes and gave him the impossible news of his release. She has saved him yet again. He knows, though, she'd say she was saving herself along with him. He's never seen her so crushed, so desperately hopeless, as when his original sentence was handed down.

He hears the first stirrings of the guards below, realizes that the first soft light of day is filtering through the window. He's passed many a night this way, lost in thoughts of what they once shared, only to be jarred out of those sleepless dreams by the searing reality that makes up his everyday. But this time, when his cell door opens, he's allowed to walk confidently toward his freedom.

Anna has sent bundles for him as promised, and he signs for them at the desk with an odd sense of calm, his stone-faced facade ever present. He wishes he could bathe, but this will more than do. Simply donning his old clothes makes him feel taller, more powerful. He fastens the stud at his collar and knots his tie squarely without benefit of a mirror, from habit alone. He stands up straighter, grasps his cane tightly, the leather of his glove settling familiarly against the wooden handle, and places his hat on his head.

She's chosen well. There's something about him in all black, his Sunday best, that proves an intimidating sight, and he uses that to his full advantage now. There's no evidence of a smile or good humor on his face; he holds it unreadable. They'll not take another thing from him. The guard at the desk shrinks back a bit as he passes, and he's glad of it. He pins Durrant with a glowering stare, then walks on freely, towering over the men who escort him to the prison door, his eyes cold and hard until he steps out into the bright light of the September morning. The heavy iron door creaks closed behind him, and only then does he relax into a smile. Anna is there, waiting.

She's already hurrying toward him when he remembers himself and removes his hat. He kisses her as passionately as he dares on the open street, and as he hands her up into the car, there's a certain promise in her eyes that he's so longed for. Sadly, they can't do anything that might scandalize the driver. She clutches his arm as the car winds through the countryside, the landscape run through with the tableaux of late summer. Fall is coming, and the thought makes him smile.

At Downton, he holds tight to her hand as they circle round to the servants' door, and he tugs her to him as she moves to go inside. He's not quite ready to face the day. They're still newlyweds really, despite everything, and they need the sort of time and togetherness that won't be possible just yet. He presses his forehead to hers anyway, and they smile giddily at one another, lingering in the courtyard for a few moments, truly alone for the first time in ages.

He feels safe enough here to pull her close among the crates and kiss her properly, and he does so, wondering if perhaps she needs help later in the linen closet. He definitely remembers the French garter that awaits his return, has considered it breathlessly during many a sleepless night. Her thoughts must be along the same vein, for she blushes and sighs in his arms. But the sun is rising higher in the sky, and she must get back.

She gently separates herself from his embrace, taking his arm instead and giving it a comforting squeeze. "Are you ready?"

He pushes in through the back door, pausing just inside, where smoke from the kitchen fires mixes with the smells of coffee and fresh bread. His cane taps solidly against the well-worn floorboards, and the familiar din of breakfast in the servants' hall rises up to greet them. He will never forget the frank, proud joy in his wife's eyes as he's welcomed and fussed over and fed. He's home.

* * *

* So, I couldn't do eighteen months of prison angst, but I felt I couldn't omit prison and stay true to the story. I hope you like what I've done here.

* The next "chapter" in the story is Homecoming, a fic that I wrote as a sequel to Meeting at Night. We'll have a few more left before we close the book on Mystery of Joy. In other news, I've had tons of requests for a journey through moving into the cottage/ the first year leading up to Scotland, and I'm going to write it! It will be a new series, though.

* Beta for this series has been provided by terriejane, giginutshell, downtonluvr, and gelana78.


	28. Homecoming

* Originally posted as a stand-alone story / sequel to A Meeting at Night, Homecoming falls after Mystery of Joy: Vigil (Chapter 26), and I'm reposting it here for ease of reading.

* * *

**Homecoming**

by Lynn Saunders

_I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach, when feeling out of sight for the ends of Being and Ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day's most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. - Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Sonnets from the Portuguese_

**September 1920**

He is an imposing figure, outlined against the shadow of the heavy iron door, unmistakable in the early morning sunshine. Her eyes drink him in, lingering on his stubbled jaw, his world-weary eyes, the scale and expanse of his body, formidable and intriguing. When his eyes relax into a smile, reflecting her joy back upon her, the world tilts back into place. She turns her face into his shoulder as he catches her in an embrace, breathing in the salt and sweat of him, the scent which had not lingered long enough on her own skin once he was taken away.

Their separation has eaten at her, eroded her spirit, and she has secretly worried that their time apart might temper their physical spark. Now, as he holds her close and kisses her lips, igniting a fire between them that travels out to her fingertips, she knows there will be a reckoning, a fierce coming together. Once they start moving forward, nothing will be able to stop them.

At home, he is greeted warmly and fed. He's finally able to indulge in a nice long soak and shave, but he won't sleep. He lingers in the servants' hall and helps her with her sewing until early afternoon, when she is free to walk the grounds with him. They speak of hopes and dreams, of family, and she finds herself falling easily back in step with him. He has been her best friend for a long while now.

When they return to the main house, she must retire to her room to don her uniform for the evening. He refuses to rest until she finally takes him by the hand and leads him to the stairs. She kisses him gently, looking into his tired eyes. "You should go to bed."

He looks up and down the hallway before pulling her close and pressing his lips to her ear. "I don't want to be without you."

A delicious shiver runs through her, and she takes a shuddering breath. "I wish we could be together, but…" They both know it's not possible, not yet.

He gives her a pained expression, nodding. "I don't know when we'll have the cottage."

She places her small hand against his cheek, and he sighs, leaning into her touch, his eyelids drooping heavily. "John, you need to rest," she says softly, concerned, using his first name to get his attention.

He gives a resigned nod and a small smile, letting his fingers linger against hers before climbing the stairs reluctantly to his old room.

* * *

When he wakes with a start, heart pounding, it's dark outside, the night deep and black, the window smudged with fog. He hears the sound of muffled, strained voices in the hallway, then the rumble of Mr. Carson's reprimands before the house falls silent again. He realizes some scuffle amongst the young men has woken him, not a prison brawl. Tears spring to his eyes, unbidden. _You're safe_, he calms himself. _You're home._

Earlier, he had settled into his small bed, miles more comfortable than his prison bunk, and even though she wasn't with him, his lips still held the faint taste of hers. He had fallen quickly into a sounder sleep than he's had in ages. Now, he misses her, needs her with a longing he struggles to suppress. He is utterly distraught that he slept through the evening and missed her soft, secret goodnight kisses.

He dresses well before the sun breaks the horizon, eager to be near her. He selects a black waistcoat, and as he slips his watch into the pocket, his fingers brush against a wisp of paper. He lifts the scrap, turning it over in his hands and recognizing it instantly. Carefully, he unfolds the little note, rereading the cherished lines she penned on their wedding night, savoring the words anew.

The memories have been imprinted on his mind, played on loop in his head over the time he has been away. He remembers her creamy skin, the arch of her back as she rose above him, tangling his fingers in her beautiful hair in the firelight as she sighed his given name in a feverish whisper. _Our first and last time together_\- the words had cut through his mind as he kissed her fervently in a prison visitation room while the guard fidgeted and looked the other way. She deserves so much more than he has been able offer her, and now he intends to make up for lost time.

He gently refolds the scrap and tucks it into the cover of his mother's Bible for safekeeping. He needs a favor, and he can think of only one person who would be able to help him. _Soon_, he thinks. _Soon._

* * *

_Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove. _

_Guest hall, fourth door on the left._

* * *

He is waiting for her when she comes down to breakfast, and she takes in the sight eagerly, a breath of fresh air. He is buttoned into his familiar wool suit, his hair slicked back. He looks like himself again. They share a chaste kiss at the foot of the stairs, as will be their habit for years to come.

"Did you sleep well?" she asks, adjusting his tie.

He smiles down at her, his thumb skimming the edge of his waistcoat pocket. "I cannot believe you didn't have someone wake me."

"Well," she says, looking up at him through her eyelashes. "You will need your rest."

He steps closer to her, and his large hand comes to rest at the small of her back possessively. "Will I, indeed?"

She clears her throat as Mrs. Hughes bustles by. "We best get on to breakfast, Mr. Bates."

"Mrs. Patmore gave me something already, since I missed dinner." He catches her eye and gives her a meaningful look as he reaches out to slip a folded square of paper into her apron pocket. "I have to look after a few things."

And with that, he presses his lips to the back of her hand and walks away, leaving her breath caught in her throat, burning with anticipation, thinking of what awaited her the last time a note passed between them.

* * *

She hasn't the time or privacy to read the note until the afternoon, but it has been burning a metaphorical hole in her pocket. She ducks into a deserted corridor, reading the secret words that make her cheeks darken and her pupils dilate.

She absolutely cannot wait to meet him. However, on this occasion, she has ample time to prepare. In the evening, she steals away to her room, locking the door behind her. She moves to the top drawer of her dresser, searching until she finds the small box, lined with tissue paper. She rubs the cream silk and lace between her fingers with a smile, remembering the hope in her heart when she made the purchase. She knew even then that he would come back to her. She uses the garters to secure her best black silk stockings and covers this with her simple black dress, thinking of their first time together and his excitement in seeing her this way. Then, she hurries through the house, down the corridor to the room she will always think of as theirs.

* * *

_If these delights thy mind may move, then live with me and be my love._

_You already know the place._

* * *

He's waiting for her with his braces hanging loosely at his sides, the sleeves of his undershirt rolled, exposing the meat of his forearms to her, streaked with soot from starting the fire. His eyes are soft, and his feet are bare. The sight of him, burnished bronze in the firelight, makes something deep within her snap, and she launches herself at him without hesitation.

Her arms fly around his neck, and he catches her, lifting her slightly off of the floor as their mouths meet hotly. No words pass between them as they collapse into the fireside chair. His tongue pushes roughly into her mouth as she settles into his lap. He's growling under her, tracing the boning of her corset with his thumbs as her fingers move to the buttons at his fly.

He catches her hands in his. "Wait."

She pants up at him, love-drunk and confused.

He presses his forehead to hers, gasping for air. "Should we slow down?"

She frees her hands and unfastens the top of his trousers. "No."

He smiles wickedly at her. "Never mind, then."

She gently pushes off of the chair, pulling him to his feet. He turns her, his attention moving to the buttons at the back of her neck, quickly working her out of her dress. Long fingers skim her waist as he reaches around to unclasp her corset. He pulls his undershirt off over his head and presses close, kissing the back of her neck. She turns in his embrace, and her fingers move again to his trousers, the fabric gaping loosely at his waist.

He steps out of his remaining clothing as he backs her against the edge of the bed. She toes out of her heels as he slips her knickers over her hips. She bends to remove her stockings, and he stills her hand.

"No time for that."

She laughs as he lifts her roughly onto the bed and covers her body with his, settling between her legs, and they grin at each other for a moment. She feels somehow more exposed with her chemise and stockings still on, and the sensation makes her burn for him. His fingers run down her thigh, stopping when they encounter the silken rise of her garter.

"France?" he asks, outlining one of the little rosettes trimmed in lace.

"Do you like it?"

He smiles, running his fingers under the edge of the fabric as he pulls her thighs up over his hips in answer. Their lips meet greedily, and he is heavy and solid, wonderful.

"I missed you more than you could ever know," he confides as he moves to enter her.

She blinks back sudden tears. "You're here now."

He kisses her softly, and her breath catches as he sinks into her. She presses her lips against his neck, her teeth marking his shoulder as moves inside her. She rises up to meet him, licking her lips with the thrill of it.

"I can't…" he pants against her neck.

She brushes his sweaty hair off of his forehead, and he looks into her eyes as he thrusts into her again.

"Don't stop," she pleads, head restless against the bed.

He stares at her for a beat before putting his head down against her shoulder and losing himself in her completely. She pulls him closer, fingernails cutting into his back until he sinks down against her with his full weight. She wraps her legs around him, and he squeezes her bottom as he drives into her, inching them sideways across the duvet.

She smiles to herself, reveling in the feel of him, all of him, his broad shoulders and musky smell, his delicious weight rocking against her. She dreamed of these moments while he was away, deep in the night as her fingers slid low across her belly, thinking of how he'd made her come undone in only one real night together. She could recall the tastes and colors, the slide of his skin against hers, but her attempts were a poor substitute for his confident touch. He always seems to know just how to bring her out of herself, and she aims to take full advantage of his presence now.

His breath quickens, and she urges him on, feeling a familiar stirring deep from within. It blooms and grows just a touch too late, as he sighs his release against her collarbone. She smooths her small hands across his back as he bucks against her again, then stills, but she can't stop moving beneath him, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin behind his ear.

He props up on his elbows and touches her face, looking into her eyes. "I love you, Anna."

"And I love you."

He exhales deeply and rolls them onto their sides, leaning his head on his elbow as she writhes against him. She takes his free hand and places it low on her belly, settling onto her back beside him.

He smiles down at her, dragging the backs of his fingers against her sensitive center. "Is that what you want?"

She nods, wetting her lips. "Touch me."

His fingers slip between her thighs as he turns her, tucking her against him, her back to his chest. He listens to her murmurs of appreciation as he finds just the right rhythm, and she tells him how she missed him, how good he feels, of lying awake at night, burning with the want of him.

"Oh," she says, "oh…" as she shatters against him.

She turns in his embrace and curls into him. Her chemise is damp with sweat, and he buries his face between her breasts, breathing in the heady scent of their lovemaking as they drift together in the firelight. After a moment, she pushes gently at his shoulder.

"John."

He hums a drowsy response, making her giggle.

"John," she says more forcefully, and he opens one eye to look at her, reluctant to move. "I just need to get out of the rest of my things," she says with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, in that case…" He gently separates himself from her, and she rises to peel off her undergarments as he watches with more than passing interest.

She tugs at the bedclothes, and he groans, rising to unmake the bed before settling under the covers.

"Come here," he says, extending a hand to his wife, the bare-skinned, glowing vision beside him. He settles her back against him as they bundle in the covers and the fire pops and cracks, sleeping in each other's arms with nothing between them for only the second time in all their years of loving.

* * *

When she wakes, the fire has burned low on the hearth. He's pressed against her back, dragging his nose across her shoulder blades.

She giggles. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," he says innocently. "Why do you ask?" He nuzzles her neck and presses his nose behind her ear, inhaling deeply before taking her earlobe between his lips. She closes her eyes, finding his hand with hers and guiding his rough fingers around to palm her breast. His right thumb circles her peaked nipple in a maddening dance.

He eases her onto her belly, teasing her legs apart as he settles against her from behind. He brushes the hair from the back of her neck and leans over so that he can see her face. "Is this alright?"

She blinks at him over her shoulder. "Of course."

He kisses her neck, the ticklish spot behind her ear, the rise of her shoulder. She pushes her bottom back against him, and he groans deep in his throat. Then he's rocking against her, deep inside her again, whispering to her as he pushes her apart.

She growls into the pillow as he takes slow strokes, his arms shaking as he spares her the full weight of his body, balancing on his left knee. She meets his thrusts with her own, grinding back against him, but he seems determined to keep the pace subdued. She grips the bedclothes, and her frustration is not lost on him.

"More?" he asks, smoky voice against her ear.

She nods with her eyes closed, turning her burning face into the pillow as she eggs him on, hoping her soft gasps of pleasure convey what she can't articulate - that she wants him fast and hard, that she wants to be forever marked as his.

He shifts them, pulling her hips toward him and rising fully onto his knees behind her as she sighs into the pillow. He's moving deep within her, colliding fully with her at every push, and it almost hurts, but she loves it, loves him for it. His hands spread flat across the curve of her waist, spanning it easily, his fingers squeezing the flesh as he strokes into her again and again, leaning slightly to the left.

He hitches up within her, and she groans. He repeats the movement, gauging her response. "There?"

She hums her appreciation, and he continues the movement until she feels herself about to fly apart. Suddenly, he hisses and stills against her.

"What?" she asks in a panicked whisper, almost crying at the abrupt loss of sensation.

He doesn't answer, smoothing his hands over her back and beginning to move again tentatively. He sighs and halts against her once more.

"Your knee?"

"I'm sorry." He disengages from her and rolls to a sitting position behind her. She turns and crawls into his outstretched arms.

"Never you mind." She eases onto his legs and takes in the long, slick length of him once more. "I rather like you this way, Mr. Bates."

He chuckles, running his fingers through her hair as her hips roll against his. She huffs with pleasure, leaning back to find that delicious angle again, and her breasts bob enticingly in front of his face. He holds tight to her hips for leverage as she grips his thick shoulders and begins to move against him in earnest. She rises and falls, his sturdy length coming up hard inside her, and she feels raw, wanton and undone, tossing her golden hair, her eyes clamped shut. She slides her fingers down to move between her legs, and he catches her hand, pulling it away gently. He brings her fingers into his mouth, groaning at her raw flavor, the taste of their coming together.

"God, Anna," he sighs, and she feels herself tightening around him, starting to fall over the edge. She leans forward so that her breasts are pressed against his chest, and he wraps his arms around her tightly as she sighs his name against his lips with her release.

Then he's rolling them, tucking her underneath him as he moves into her roughly. He bites his lip as he comes into her, tasting blood on his tongue. She soothes his swollen lip with her kisses as he collapses against her, out of breath. She clutches him against her chest as their bodies cool and wonders how she will get the feel of him out of her mind long enough to go about her work.

* * *

She reluctantly slips from the bed in the wee hours of the morning, pulling him with her. They dress in the dark, and he holds her for a long while before they part for the day.

She sighs, leaning into him. "I don't want to leave."

"I'll see you at breakfast." He smiles against her hair. "And in the afternoon. I'm home, and I'm not going away again."

"No, it's not that." She eases back in his embrace so that she can see his face. "When we're together…"

He threads his fingers through hers and kisses the back of her delicate hand. "When we're together like this, you mean?"

"Yes." She gives him a small smile before continuing. "I feel… consumed, and when I have to leave you to go about my day, it hurts." She runs her fingers under his lapels. "I'm being silly, of course. It's probably something you've gotten used to."

"On the contrary," he replies, cupping her shoulder blades with his hands, "it's never been like this with anyone. Not for me."

She looks down, embarrassed and disbelieving.

He tilts her chin and looks into her eyes. "Never."

She reaches up to touch his face, and he catches her hand, pressing something cool and metallic into her palm. She blinks down at the small key.

"And we will have the cottage in a few days," he says.

She gives him a questioning smile.

"We will," he says firmly.

"What have you been up to?"

He pulls her close and kisses her as the sun slips above the horizon. "Live with me, Anna, and be my love."

* * *

* Timing for S3E7 is uncertain. APA has in her timeline that Bates comes home the day before they walk the grounds together. However, I've always thought of these events occurring on the same day. In the end, that's how I left it because that's what felt right to me.

* For gibbsgalsa, who requested a second chapter to Meeting at Night on .

* Special thanks to gelana78 and terriejane for beta.

* Anna and Bates reference a poem in their notes to one another: The Passionate Shepherd to His Love by Christopher Marlowe

All of my DA-Era fic exits within roughly the same "canon-style" universe. Stories in order: Mystery of Joy - A Meeting at Night - Homecoming - Sweet Dreams - Hope Traversed at Night - Anything

* _A Meeting at Night_ occurs between Chapter 24 (Closer) and Chapter 25 (Evaporate) of _Mystery of Joy_. _Homecoming_ occurs between Chapter 26 (Vigil) and the remaining chapters of _Mystery of Joy_.


	29. Summit

**Mystery of Joy**

Chapter 27: Summit

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

_Why, what is to live? Not to eat and drink and breathe, but to feel the life in you down all the fibres of being, passionately and joyfully. - Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

**September 1920**

Night creatures hum and rustle all around as her steps fall sure across the well-traveled path to the little field by the oak tree. He's beside her, negotiating the landscape carefully in the dark. The old moon will rise in only a few hours, but now the night is deep and black, the air still pleasantly warm and sweet despite the steady creep of autumn.

Within the week, Anna and Mr. Bates will have a room all their own, with a soft new bed and a warm hearth. They'll have the sort of fine linens she doesn't think twice about investing in, a private indulgence paid for by the first rent from his mother's home, saved carefully all this time. Their books will mix and mingle, her Browning on his chair by the fire, his Yeats on her bedside table. They will hold each other close in the cottage doorway, in awe that it's all finally coming to pass, that they'll have space of their own. In the evenings, they will lie tangled together as they catch their breath, and she'll smile as he kisses her neck in the candlelight.

But for now, they've a fine carpet of lush late summer grass, laid out thick beneath his mother's quilt, and a cloudless night sky above. She points out all of the constellations she learned while he was away, and his hand trails across the nape of her neck. They are sprawled under the stars together, he on his back with his legs crossed at the ankles, Anna tucked into the crook of his arm. His tie, jacket and collar have long been discarded, folded neatly at the foot of the blanket. She turns toward him, slipping the flat of her hand inside the vee of his waistcoat simply because she can, and his heartbeat is strong against her fingertips. He smiles with his eyes closed, and she realizes he's been slowly falling asleep.

Three days ago, Mary mischievously met Anna's eyes in the vanity mirror and asked whether they'd enjoyed the room. Again. Anna smiles at the memory and buries her face in his chest, breathing in. After the soaring highs of his homecoming and the surprise of another blissful night in the big four poster bed in the guest hall, she'd worked late, and they had been forced to spend the next evening apart. It took everything she had not to creep down the hallway, unlock the dividing door, and slip into his room. Instead, she'd reclined against her headboard, holding the key to their cottage - the key to their future - between her thumb and forefinger, watching it catch in the light from her candle. They've not only Mary, but Matthew to thank as well. Just as soon as Mrs. Bow's belongings can be moved to the village, they'll be able to build their home together.

He kisses her temple, strokes her cheek, and she turns her face into his palm before their lips meet amidst the quiet vibration of the September meadow. Presently, he begins pulling the buttons at her collar, slowly parting the fabric, following with his lips as his fingers work lower. She sighs happily as he traces the silky neckline of her chemise. She's not wearing her corset, and when he realizes this, he growls low in her ear. She wonders what he'll do when he discovers what else she's not wearing.

God, she loves him. When he was taken from her, the pain of his absence echoed dully across each moment that he used to fill. Now, she can't seem to get enough of him. She desperately wants to revisit all of the intriguing notions that have so thoroughly distracted her over the years, to make them memories instead, to steal back out to the conservatory and the little stone bench under the willow - to properly lie with him in meadow, beneath the stars.

"You know, no one has ever interrupted us here," she says with a sly grin as her fingers move to his waistcoat buttons.

His eyes glint in the dark as he rolls her, and they sigh and whisper, smiling as they move together below the endless star-specked sky. She registers nothing but the sound of his secret murmurs in the dark, the pleasing bulk of his shoulders, the delicious weight of his body as he settles above her. She eases her skirts up so that she might feel him held firmly in the cradle of her hips. He reaches down to draw her legs up around his waist, and his large hands slowly slide over the tops of her stockings, up the backs of her thighs. When his fingertips encounter only bare skin, he draws a ragged breath, his eyes going dark and wild. She doesn't have to convince him after all.

Making love in the meadow proves to be everything she'd hoped for - the clandestine thrill of sneaking around in Kirkbymoorside combined with the comforting knowledge that he is hers and she is his, officially and forever. In the coming days, they will indeed meet in the little greenhouse one last time. She'll giggle as he crosses the threshold close on her heels, his cane lying forgotten somewhere near the door. He'll lift her easily onto the workbench, but their movements won't be careful. They will be searing, desperate, and she will turn her face into his chest, laughing heartily as they're interrupted by an unfortunate crash of pottery. It's as if she's having some ardent affair, only with her husband. And so she is.

Tonight, she gasps into his neck as he sinks into her and holds tight to his thick shoulders as he moves within her, sighing his given name against his ear as he loves her. After, they rest with their foreheads pressed together, a bit surprised, each grinning somewhat proudly at their own boldness, and she holds him close in the meadow where it all began, listening as the old oak tree sways in the gentle breeze.

For the first time in ages, she feels truly settled. They don't speak. They drift, their spirits quiet and restful, at peace here in the meadow past midnight, in the near-silent spaces between them where joy is found.

* * *

An end.

* I can't believe this story has come to a stopping point. I've never undertaken quite so large a writing project before - little did I know that this would grow to be a novel-length fic. I could not have managed it without the help of these wonderful people:

\- My beta team: terriejane, gelana78, giginutshell, and downtonluvr. All of these ladies provide immensely helpful feedback and fic-related therapy services, slap my hand when I've done something I shouldn't, and have issued many prompts that have made the story infinitely better. Terrie has read beta for literally every chapter, which is no small feat. Gelana lets me know when I haven't included enough… detailed lovemaking. Giginutshell introduced me to Bannarotica and the Alot. Downtonluvr is endlessly helpful and always up to discuss plot.

\- Everyone who has provided prompts: annambates, awesomegreentie, Isis the Dog, handy-for-the-bus, and several guest reviewers on .

\- angel-princess-anna for creating the Banna timeline and helping with plot details and deleted scenes.

\- Every single person who has left or is going to leave a review. Feedback is what I live for, and it keeps me writing.

* The quote at the beginning of the chapter is from a letter written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning to her husband Robert on March 20, 1845.

* I sincerely love and appreciate every one of you for reading. I've had a blast, and more than anything, this experience has shown me that I *can* write long stories, after all. Thank you and goodnight!


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